


Miss Black and the Pointe Shoes

by LilacFree



Series: Miss Black [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Gen, Minor Character Death, always a girl|Harry, girl!Harry, probably incompetent ballet term usage, savaged by plotbunny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22593856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilacFree/pseuds/LilacFree
Summary: Girl|Harry is raised by the Black family.  She is permitted to study ballet, but finds her dream of being a dancer will be difficult to pursue.  She is obliged to go to Hogwarts instead of Beauxbatons, where they offer dance classes.  Most people are confused because they thought there was a Boy Who Lived named Harry Potter and that's not who she is.  She has to deal with other wizard children after having been brought up a secret.  And Voldemort is happy to kill her on his way to getting a body back.
Series: Miss Black [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1625731
Comments: 14
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Neither beta'd nor brit-picked, but the author feels morally obligated to accept correction. At least it means someone read it. If I have failed to tag for something that should be tagged, please point it out.
> 
> This goes through the first year, but skims over many events. The flow of the writing reflects this -- I don't know how successful I have been in limiting the detail. The story is complete but has threads for further stories. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I have never been a ballet student. It will probably show to those who know better.

The Black family’s London house had been built in 1850. Plumbing had been added in 1902, but after that, no. 12 Grimmauld Place had discreetly faded from view and from the march of time. Wood panels that had once been golden oak were now dark with ages of wax polish. The black wallpaper had once been brightened by silver medallions, but the metallic gleam had tarnished. The bottle green draperies and grey sheers shielded the eye from any chance view of Muggle London. More arcane drapings blocked exterior sounds, among their other functions.

“My dear, it is just like Sirius to keep causing us trouble. Why couldn’t it have been… ah, but it is vain to speak such things. This may be distasteful to us, but the Black family honour is called on. The duty to raise the child falls on this house. And you know, Walburga, that my father is not going to lift a finger.” 

“And he will be displeased if he doesn’t like what we do.” Walburga lifted her hand to her husband’s cheek. “I do my duty whatever the pain, my dear husband.”

“As ever, I rely on your steadfast will and family pride, my dear wife.” Orion air-kissed Walburga’s hand.

“Raised by Muggles… Albus Dumbledore is entirely mad. What a wretched mess he would make of that child. And I, I can hardly believe that half-blood is to be brought up as a Black.” Her spider-silk fan spread with a hiss, and she raised a breeze over her agitation.

“My lord father informs me that despite the rumour of the foolish masses, that it was the Mudblood who overcame… Him. By a mother’s sacrifice. And that Dumbledore counts on her blood kin protecting the child.”

“Such a great wizard to be overcome by a Mudblood witch,” she sneered. “That is who our son gave his life for? Oh, Orion, it is maddening!” Walburga snapped her fan shut and glided back and forth, red raging on her cheekbones. “If Sirius was trying to redeem himself in our eyes he has failed utterly. Two members of the family in Azkaban! And all for nothing.”

Orion’s silence drew her attention and she stared at him. At last he yielded to that insistence. “Father does not believe Sirius is guilty. Only, as ever, a fool.”

“Has he ever been otherwise?” she laughed bitterly. “If he is right there is still a traitor out there. Snape, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. We must be wary.” His face darkened. “To you will fall the greatest burden. But my dearest, no one could fulfil this duty better than you. If only I were still alive.”

Walburga turned away from the portrait. “I have an ally in mind.” She laughed very softly. “Let it be a surprise. We are Blacks, and know how to use it to our advantage.”

The Prewett house was smaller and in a less prestigious location than Grimmauld Place, but a generation newer in style with the bright window treatments and delicate floral patterns of the Edwardian era. Tea was served in the Lilac Salon, before a picture window overlooking a garden. “So lovely of you to call on me, Walburga. And you without your widow’s weeds at last! It suits you, it does.” 

“I have your example to follow, Lucretia.” They smiled measured smiles. They had crossed swords more than once over a tea table but it was usually at Grimmauld Place, Walburga’s home territory and not this elegant little parlor in the Prewett house.

“Such a lovely day for tea. The sunshine brightens up the room.” Lucretia commented, beginning the old game of sideways insult for insult.

Walburga put down her cup. “Lucretia, I’ve come with more purpose than a social call. You know what a burden Sirius has been to me. And now he’s destroyed himself entirely and left a child without a guardian.”

Lucretia’s hand stilled on her teacup. She set it back down. “I suppose it was expected for him to be named godfather.” She rearranged the napkin on her knee.

“We disowned him, but Arcturus did not. The Black family has an obligation and a debt of honor to pay to the Potter child. To step in where Sirius failed in every way.” She delicately sipped at her tea and let her composure return, as Lucretia untangled her words.

“I have no right. My blood is Black but I’m a Prewett, and have been for years.”

“The child must be fostered under Arcturus’ roof to have the fullest weight of law applied to the Black claim for custody.” Walburga carefully hid her glee. She knew that the great pain of Lucretia’s life was her childlessness.

Lucretia smiled into her cup. “My dear Walburga, you sound so law-abiding.”

“I will use all the means at my disposal.”

Lucretia rose from the table. “Let me show you something.” She drew Walburga to stand before a painting hanging on a wall that would not expose it to direct sunlight. It was one of those blurry modern affairs that had come into popularity when they were children. Dancers in short white dresses floated across a stage.

“I’ve no love for Muggles, but since they exist, at least some of them contribute to art. I have always planned that if I had my own child, I would arrange him or her to have ballet lessons. Such poise, such grace, such discipline.” She looked to Walburga.

“All necessary talents for a pureblood of ancient and noble family. You have will and talent that have gone untapped, suited to raising a child.”

“I’ve always wanted a daughter.”

Walburga and Lucretia didn’t bother with the Ministry. The child had not been lawfully fostered; Dumbledore’s secrecy served them well. Arcturus, by means he did not share, knew where the Potter child’s Muggle relatives might be found. And so the Black women arrived on Privet Drive, spoke both too briefly and too long with the sister of Lily Evans Potter, and departed with a baby girl.

“I’ve never felt so virtuous. What an appalling harpy. Dumbledore should be hung over a slow fire, leaving a wizard child with such a creature.” Lucretia didn’t let her ire raise her voice. Low tones, to suit the tiny child in her arms.

“Did you see her own spawn? Like a lump of suet. And her so proud of demeanour and and all jealousy beneath. “ They approached a vintage Rolls-Royce. An impeccably dressed man held the door for them to get in. The ride to London was smooth and discreet. If one were to lower oneself to use Muggle transport, one should insist on the best, after all. Walburga turned possibilities over in her mind. “Perhaps Dumbledore had some further purpose we have not guessed at, schemer that he is.”

“To have a child be grateful to be rescued from that … utterly Muggle hellhole?” Lucretia rocked the girl a little. A nutrition potion had put her to sleep.

“Stop, you begin to make me like him.”

They sat quietly as the luxurious car purred over the miles.

Lucretia broke the silence with a mused, “Harriet Daisy Potter.”

“No. My dear, no.”

“Quite right. The Potters always took a low tone. Boasting of having the common touch.”

They began the old name game of Black women. What name hadn’t been used too recently? What suited their sensibilities and tastes? The Blacks preferred Latin and Greek star names, but they borrowed from other languages as well. 

“Arrakis? It’s amusingly like Harriet, I say.” Lucretia said as lightly as possible.

“Do you think such an exotic name has staying power? Why not something in French, like Marguerite?”

“For Daisy? Well, she needs two names. Arrakis Marguerite Black.”

Walburga gave a slight nod. “We do have standards. She will learn to meet them.”

Grimmauld Place was as it ever was, with the addition of Orion’s portrait. The women had given the sleeping child over to Kreacher’s care. Now Walburga claimed exhaustion and took to her bed.

Lucretia sought out her father’s chamber. Arcturus was aged before his time. She had believed he would live past his century; believed that he was the most ruthless and calculating wizard of his era. But his plans had crumbled and his family had failed him. Even she, perfect until she failed to bring fresh blood to the Black family. “It is done, Father.”

“Let it be done well. While there is life yet left in me, I will not let the Black family fall into ruin. Your body failed you, Lucretia. Your will did not. You did not let yourself be tempted by the foolish rituals offered to desperate women. Be mindful of Walburga. Her devotion to the family is unquestioned.”

“Oh, father, you may as well speak plainly. She and Orion did poorly by those boys.” She bottled up the rest of her frustration. The past was dead and rotting in Azkaban.

Arcturus didn’t bother to raise so much as an eyebrow. “She is the lady of the house. You are my daughter and guest. And the girl—she is to be a Black.”

“We have chosen a name for her.”

“Walburga will legally adopt her, but I will blood adopt her myself and not depend on paper. The name?” The names had always been left to Black women steeped in the family history as their bellies swelled and they plotted dynasties.

“Arrakis Marguerite Black.”

He nodded. “Bring her to me on the last dark day of the moon.”

“Kreacher, may I have another glass of milk?”

Kreacher was always there. Great-grandfather was rarely there, Mother Black was dead, and Aunt Lucretia was like a clock, moving along her path at a set pace and not tolerating spontaneous diversions.

“Young miss may have a half-glass of milk now, and another after she has done her morning exercise.” Kreacher said the word ‘exercise’ like it was an incantation a house-elf shouldn’t use, but he was obliged to use it. He handed her the half glass of milk.

“Thank you, Kreacher.” This was an exercise too, the practice of her manners on the one person in the household held least in desert of them. At the advanced age of ten, Arrakis was expected to act like a pureblood lady every moment of her life. “Today is a special day, Kreacher. I will be wearing my first pointe shoes.” She extended her slender legs, pointing the toes as she had been practising for months to strengthen the bones and muscles. Arrakis had an excellent build for ballet. She had expressive eyes and a pretty face, despite the scar that defied pancake makeup. Only her hair refused to ever completely conform to discipline. Mother Black had tried to cut it very short once, but overnight it grew back. She spent a day on bread and milk to appease the matriarch. Aunt Lucretia had sent up ‘an egg custard for Lord Black’s great-granddaughter’. Now her hair was long and wavy, with red highlights in the sun and a few tendrils that always escaped. She had to lacquer it in place for class.

“Young miss will do well and Kreacher will be proud.”

Arrakis beamed at the old elf. “When I can dance en pointe I will show you. But it will take months to learn properly.”

The clocked chimed Arrakis’ exercise. She finished her milk and went to the dance studio. It had been outfitted at great expense by Muggle experts who had been gently confunded to ignore the fact they were working in a wizard extended space. The floor resembled golden oak boards but was actually some manufactured substance that worked with the motion of her feet instead of against it. There were skylights, and a mirrored wall with a barre, and a centre barre for other exercises that could be moved to leave the floor clear.

She had a year before she had to go to Hogwarts. Beauxbatons had a ballet program, but Great-grandfather Arcturus and Aunt Lucretia would not relent. As the summer waned towards her birthday, she had been sent up to great-grandfather’s room.

“Come here, Arrakis.” The old man held out his hand on which the beautifully groomed flesh had shrunk away from the graceful bones and tendons. She took it and knelt by Arcturus’ side, as was their practice. “This may be the last time we meet. Soon I will be parted from Time, and know if what I have done in life has been any more than the acts of a fool. I have spent much of my last strength to obtain information that you are not yet ready to hear. Ah, defiance, subdued. Well done. You will need such skill to live with valuable information in your head. You have been told of wizards skilled in Legilimency who can skim your thoughts. Dumbledore is one of them, and for all his high-flown talk of morals, he believes he has the right to do what he must to wage his war. It is his hypocrisy that disgusts me, not his methods. You will be in his hands soon.”

The old man was silent for so long that Arrakis searched for the rise and fall of his breaths.

“Voldemort. Is not dead.”

Her indrawn breath raked the silence he left.

“He will move to destroy you — he must rid himself of the idiotic legend that has risen around the story of his fall. You will die or wish yourself dead, if he gets hold of you. When you leave Grimmauld Place to join your peers to grow in power and contend against each other in the test of your new strength, the plots that have been fomenting will manifest. Instead of a myth, you will be a flesh and blood girl who can be dealt with directly. And there are so many… so many fools. Ah, child. Arrakis.” He lifted her hand for a courtier’s kiss. “I have made you heir second to Sirius. He can make another his heir, but he cannot take what I will give you. And if he dies, all the history of my family will be yours to defend or discard as you choose.”

“Why have you not disowned him, as Mother Black did?”

“That is an excellent question which I will not answer.” He put a finger to her lips to still her protest. “Do not whine or pout. There is more substance in fairy tales than in ‘fair’.” His wrinkled lids turtled over his eyes. “Repeat that.”

“Do not whine or pout. There is more substance in fairy tales than in ‘fair’.”

His rustling-paper laugh was not strong enough to stir the air. “In an earlier era, I might have had you embroider that motto on a sampler.”

Arcturus fell silent. Arrakis stayed on her knees, listening. Each faint breath was his last, until the next one. So far.

“I love you. One day you will ask why I have done what I have done. That is the answer. Go, now.”

One did not argue with Great-grandfather. Arrakis kissed his hand and left.

Arcturus Black died early in the morning of September 1st. He was found in bed, with his folded hands resting on his chest. His death having been long expected, everything to happen afterwards had been planned out. The bustle was a new thing in the normally silent house. The Ministry sent an Auror and a Healer to record the death. Members of the family were notified and a visitation was set to run until the next sunrise, whereupon the body would be delivered to its waiting tomb. The visitation proved to be less of people than of owls. A normal postal owl delivered a bouquet of white anemones that brought a smirk to Lucretia’s lips. “From Andromeda. Smarter than both her sisters. Wasted on that Muggleborn.” She set them at Arcturus’ feet. Other owls brought flowers and cards in a more conventional style. In the late afternoon, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy arrived. The will was to be read at sunset.

Narcissa walked to the bier and looked upon her great-uncle’s face. A pair of Galleons covered his eyes. Arrakis sat quietly nearby, her hands folded in her lap. She admired Narcissa’s composure. The Malfoys had seen her, but understood the signal of the long black veil she wore — this person was not here to speak.

Lucretia came forward. “Tea will be served in the parlour. Do take a cup. Mr. Stroud should arrive soon.“ 

The parlour gave those taking tea a view of the body and the girl sitting beside it. Occasionally she rose from her seat to tend the candelabra set out around the bier.

“You refer to the senior Mr. Stroud, do you not?” asked Lucius.

“He has been the solicitor to the Black family since he first started his career, when his services were retained by Phineas Nigellus Black.”

Artagan Stroud arrived attended by two younger men -- which, as he was a fabulous 150 years old, meant Mr. Alden Stroud was a similar age to Arcturus and looked barely more alive, and Mr. Algernon Stroud was about Lucius Malfoy’s age. The senior partner’s age showed mostly in the stoop of his shoulders. Strikingly tall, he had a fine head of silver hair swept back into a queue braided with a black satin ribbon. The youngest man mainly assisted his peer, who leaned heavily on a cane.

“I never take hot drinks any more — ah, thank you, Kreacher.” The house-elf offered Stroud senior a goblet of Venetian glass, filled with a clear liquid that turned out to be water from a Scottish spring. “I remember Arcturus’ wedding reception that was held here. A fine day, and a lovely bride.” His eyelids hooded in heavy wrinkles still lifted for a bright glance at the veiled girl.

Lucretia looked to the window, and seeing the sun was but a sliver on the horizon, called out, “Arrakis, light the other candles, then come join us.”

“Yes, Mrs. Prewett.” The girl moved through the room lighting more candles until there was a whiff of their herbal scent on the air. Lucretia began to gesture at the lamps to raise the illumination, but Stroud shook his head.

“Allow us, madame, and we will have matters arranged in a few brief moments.” This turned out to be the task of Algernon, who set up the lighting and laid out the papers in a few efficient movements. The girl came into the parlour past Alden Stroud, who gave a startled twitch and dropped an envelope at her feet. It hit the carpeted floor with a marked thunk. She sank neatly to one knee, scooped the envelope up and offered it to him. “Allow me, sir.”

“Thank you, young lady.”

The elder Stroud had picked a seat slightly back from the table with the papers, leaving him in dimmer light. The light fell brightest on the papers spread out before Algernon.

“Narcissa, gentlemen: my ward, Miss Arrakis Black.” Lucretia performed the introductions. The girl dipped a curtsy, murmured, “How do you do?” and took her seat at Lucretia’s side.

The sun set. A chime rang.

“The firm of Stroud and Sons has been contracted to serve as executors of the will of the late Arcturus Black. I am enjoined to notify those present that the will was reviewed last week and a few small updates were made reflecting the current family financial situation. The signatures of the witnesses are available on application in the proper form.”

Lucius Malfoy stirred in his seat, his lips tight. His wife was a marble statue modelling perfect posture.

“To my eldest daughter, Lucretia Empusa Black Prewett, I leave guest-right to Black Manor, Kent, and to 12 Grimmauld Place, London, in perpetuity. I leave to her outright 80 thousand Galleons.”

“Alden has the relevant packet for you, Mrs. Prewett,” Stroud directed as if expecting the next eldest Stroud to hobble about on his cane like a feeble Father Christmas. Alden did not; his wrinkles deepened with resentment.

“Additionally, I settle upon her the custody of my youngest daughter, Arrakis Marguerite Black, until she becomes of age. In this charge, she has oversight of her ward’s trust vault; and jointly with Stroud and Sons for all other property settled on the minor heir.”

Alden Stroud set aside two packets.

“To Cassiopeia Black, I assign the revenue generated by shares in certain business properties that I inherited from my uncle Cygnus, her father, as long as she shall live.” Those gathered knew that Cassiopeia had been receiving this money all these years anyway. There followed a further list of small bequests consisting of money and a few pieces of jewellery to various Black descendants. Alden arranged the packets in order in front of him, his lower lip thrust out.

“To my cousin Narcissa Alcyone Black Malfoy, I bequeath Lady Francis’ tea service., with the stipulation that it should be passed to her son Draco Lucius Malfoy on her death. This is at the request of her late aunt Walburga. Additionally, she is to receive 30 thousand galleons to her dower vault.” Narcissa’s eyes narrowed. Lucretia chuckled. Algernon Stroud held up a hand and looked at his watch. After a precisely measured silence (for him, Lucretia was still murmurous with amusement), he continued.

“After excluded properties entailed upon the oldest male heir of the Black family, all other properties and assets will be divided between this major heir, being Sirius Orion Black, and the minor heir, my daughter Arrakis Marguerite Black. As Sirius Orion Black is in prison, his inheritance will be held in trust by Stroud and Sons. If he dies before being able to accept his inheritance, it will devolve to the minor heir.”

Artagan Stroud said to Lucretia, “Alden has the paperwork for your review. You and Miss Black will need to sign the initial paperwork today. I can have you briefed on the family financial situation, but I understand that Miss Black should be delayed no more than necessary before departing for Hogwarts.”

The Malfoys glinted interest. “Such a weighty matter for such dainty shoulders,” Lucius smiled.

“She must be of an age with Draco. A pity we have not been able to welcome her to the family until now,” Narcissa added.

“Father wished her kept close to home. Arrakis is a distant cousin, whom Father blood-adopted. Oh, Kreacher—”

As Lucretia spoke to Kreacher, Narcissa turned her cool smile on Arrakis. “How sentimental of Great-Uncle Arcturus, to take in a child.”

The girl lifted her head a little, as if the veil was made of wrought iron instead of silk lace. “He and Mother Black always treated me with great generosity and devoted much time and attention to my welfare. I am, and always will be, grateful to them, and to Mrs. Prewett.” Her sweet voice still had childish tones, but the care of her words showed the upbringing she spoke of.

Kreacher disappeared then reappeared with a small wooden Japanese chest of fine craftsmanship. Narcissa was distracted immediately. She opened the centre panel doors and withdrew an elaborate teapot that had as its spout the mouth of an Asian dragon. She turned it over in her hands, a smile curving her lips like the sinuous motion of the dragon’s body.

Lucius’ face hovered between a frown and a fond smile. He took up the conversation his wife had let drop. “I shall make sure my son Draco knows he has a new cousin to meet. He should be at the Sorting Feast by now.” He smiled at Lucretia. “Mrs, Prewett, as one of Hogwarts governors, please allow me to make sure there’s no difficulty with your ward’s late arrival at school.”

“We did notify the school, but I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Lucius. It is unfortunate that Arrakis will miss out on the traditions of the arrival at Hogwarts. They expect her to be there before tomorrow evening.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy; you are most kind,” Arrakis said.

The Malfoys took their leave shortly afterwards. The younger Strouds gathered up the legal documents while Artagan chatted with Lucretia. “One of my ladies from the office will come along in the morning to join Miss Black for her drive north. Algernon will see them there.” He smiled at Arrakis. “You have excellent manners. It’s a rare talent these days. Do not forget them amongst the hoydens and jackanapes at Hogwarts. No matter your situation, courtesy is its own reward and not something you perform for the sake of others.” He shook his head. “I grow sententious. Forgive me. The firm of Stroud and Sons is ready to assist you, as always. My card.” He offered her his personal gold edged business card. Before leaving he stood by the bier for a few minutes.

Arrakis could not imagine what it was like to have known a man from infancy and see him dead of old age. How many other wizards retained such vigour when as old as Mr. Stroud?

Such thoughts ran through her head as she waited by the bier all night long. The body was under a stasis spell, resting in peace. Her body needed what bodies do, but she was the only one young enough to manage the wake. Lucretia got quite faint before midnight, and Kreacher took her up to her room.

Alone, Arrakis rearranged the chairs to make a wider empty space. No one else showed up all that long night. So for herself, and for Great-grandfather, she danced. The five positions and the reverences of ballet, the box step of the waltz. A few steps of the minuet, but not the gavotte — too lively for this room. She kept every motion slow, considered, respectful. When she found herself tearing up, she held first position, arms extended, breathing in and out for music. A Black should not weep in public, and she had an audience though silent as the grave. She built choreography out of the tending of the candles.

All that was asked of her tonight was that she keep Arcturus company. In the morning he would be laid in his tomb among the wizard dead. Tomorrow night she would be in school among the wizard living. Strangers’ eyes would search out her secrets. Tomorrow, the veil came off.

The Rolls-Royce delivered Arrakis Black dressed in her school robes, hat and all, to Hogsmeade. Algernon Stroud levitated her trunk and walked her to the gates of Hogwarts and up the hill to the doors of the castle. They were met by a tall stern witch, the deputy headmistress. “Thank you, Mr. Stroud. We will take care of her from here.”

“It was my pleasure, Professor McGonagall. My respects to Professor Dumbledore. Good evening, Miss Black.” He tipped his hat and strolled down the hill.

“Miss Black, I am Professor McGonagall. We’ll Sort you and then you will know what House table to sit at for supper. Your House head will make sure you get your class schedule. You’ll find your trunk waiting for you in your dormitory, wherever that turns out to be.” She softened her brisk tone. “My condolences on the death of Mr. Black.”

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall. I’m sorry to have caused you difficulty.”

“It could not be helped. Welcome to Hogwarts, I wish you better luck from here on.” The doors opened. Taking off her hat, she followed McGonagall led her between the tables towards the staff table at the back of the room. Murmurs rose in her wake, she looked only straight ahead. Her hair was drawn into a high pony tail that trailed soft waves down her shoulders. It bared her face except for a few wisps. It drew attention to her emerald eyes, and to the lightning bolt scar on her forehead.

At the centre of the high table, the headmaster had already risen to his feet to greet her. But he did not speak, even as the other staff stared at her, spoke to each other, glanced sidelong at him.

McGonagall led her up to a chair with a hat sitting on it. She picked up the hat, and looked up at Dumbledore. He collected himself. “Everyone please welcome Miss Black. She was unable to join us at the Sorting Feast due to a death in the family.” He looked down at McGonagall, who still was not in a position to see Arrakis’ face. She carried on with aplomb.

“Please be seated, Miss Black.” Arrakis sat down and the strange old hat was placed on her head. The noise of the Great Hall muffled, though she could hear deep booming tones of someone failing to whisper, “Innit that little Harriet Potter at last?”

The aged voice of the hat spoke in her head. “This is certainly going to be an interesting task. A Potter and a Black, all in one. You can hardly go into two Houses! Which one, which one… well, now that I’ve had a good look — SLYTHERIN!”

The hat came off into an uproar of noise. McGonagall called for quiet. Arrakis turned to Professor Dumbledore. “Thank you, Headmaster, for overlooking my lateness. I am very sorry to have missed the first day of class.” She met his twinkling blue eyes. She’d been told to. What could an eleven year old girl expect to hide? Her biggest secret was out in the open for everyone with eyes to see.

“I’m sure you shall make it up — Arrakis.” Dumbledore sat back down. 

McGonagall touched her shoulder. “The Slytherin table is over there.”

“Yes, Professor.” Arrakis took a single step back, dipped her knee, then headed to the table where a prefect was gesturing to her. At other tables, especially the Gryffindors, people were leaning almost out of their seats to stare. At her face.

Draco Malfoy smiled at her and gestured to an empty seat beside him. She knew who it was: he had a look of his parents. Especially the dissatisfaction tightening the corners of his mouth. As she ate sparingly, it was not hard to spend most of the meal greeting her yearmates in Slytherin and memorising faces and names. No one asked her prying questions, but they held those questions in their eyes. Even the older students were letting Malfoy take the lead. Apparently his father had got the word to him immediately — only it had not included the revelation made tonight.

Of course, if anyone did ask, she was clearly not ‘The Boy Who Lived.’ Even Great-grandfather could not confirm how a baby girl became a famous baby boy. Possibly the nickname ‘Harry’ for Harriet had confused some journalist and the mistake had been left to propagate.

Everyone who had manners was polite. Those few who lacked manners kept their mouths shut. She could tell one day had been enough to make her an outsider. Probably she would have been one anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrakis tries to shape her Hogwarts experience.

The Slytherin dorms housed three students. Arrakis was assigned to share with Millicent Bulstrode, who had had the room to herself the first night. Millicent was brusque and stand-offish. She lingered unspeaking, playing with her cat while Arrakis unpacked her clothing.

The prefect who had shown her to her room, Gemma Farley, came in. “Professor Snape wants to see you in his office. I’ll escort you there. Mind you remember the way back.” On the way to see the House head, Farley gave her an introduction to the ways of Slytherin house.

And so Arrakis was let into Professor Snape’s office. She placed herself before his desk, choosing a soft balanced position with her arms very slightly curved.. Then, as she had looked at Dumbledore, she looked her Head of House full in the face.

He stared back, direct and hard, upright in his chair with his black hair framing his face and his black robes like a wall.

“Harriet Daisy Potter was not good enough for you?”

This was the first time she’d heard him speak. The artful inflections of his voice startled her. Arrakis flexed her foot, then re-centred her weight. “I know that was the name my birth parents gave me, but I don’t remember being called it. It was not kept a secret from me. I was not taught to disrespect them.” Her careful voice faltered, and the oncoming blush tempted her lashes to veil her eyes. Was it so hard already, to be a Black among wizards?

“Hmph. Explain this outside instructor. Why should a first year student be allowed an elective?” His hand swept dismissively across the desk, stirring the papers but not blowing them awry. Snape’s sleeve was snugly buttoned as far up his arm as far as she could see. He might have made a good dancer — perhaps he had training. His deportment spoke of discipline and control.

“I have studied dance since I was a small child. It is not an art that can be set aside without cost. It shapes you.” Her cheeks heated again. “It requires dedication.” The prepared phrases sounded stiff and she felt he saw through her.

“You should have gone to Beauxbatons,” he sneered.

“I asked to apply there, but my parents’ will specified that I attend Hogwarts.”

He picked up a scroll from the desk and read a few lines of it before his gaze pierced her. “This is a privilege. If you neglect your studies or misbehave, it will be taken away.”

“Yes, Professor Snape. I understand.” She bit her lip on further words.

“And if you expected to be treated like a celebrity, forget that foolishness. Nor are you ranked higher in any way than your Slytherin peers. Any status you have here, you will earn, and keep earning. Slytherin is united. In public.”

Arrakis lifted her eyes to his again. His eyes were crow dark, snake dark, dormant volcano dark. He intimidated with little effort; nevertheless she felt stronger looking him in the face. As she had been told to do. Would she ever find out why? Soon she would no longer be a child and there would be no rehearsed manoeuvres to fall back on.

“I anticipate I have much to learn from my fellow students.” It was a practised phrase, one among an arsenal of similar phrases meant to guard her. To say as Snape had that she would not be treated as a celebrity was untrue. It would be the unpleasant side of celebrity — the eyes on her, the gossip, the readiness to pounce on her every mistake.

By Friday, she had made up for her missing classes. With Draco’s nominal support, Slytherin House showed Arrakis civility. She believed that her practice of courtesy made the best of the situation. The most awkward part of her day was being alone with Millicent Bulstrode, who switched from ignoring her to staring at her. She didn’t spend much time in their dorm room. Early in the morning, before breakfast, she would rise and go to a room designated for use in her dance lessons. It had a mirrored wall and a barre. The hardwood floor was old, but made for dance.

She was working on her turnout when the door opened. Millicent entered sounding the wood with her heavy tread. She was a broadly framed girl who could uncharitably be called fat, but she could grow out of that into something more powerful. Neither of them spoke. Arrakis acknowledged her with a nod of her head, and continued her exercise.

“Are you always going to be the last person to breakfast?”

“If I don’t exercise in the morning, I don’t know if I will be able to do it later. Best to do it now.” She ran through a series of plies in first and second position.

“You look like a frog.”

“Better a frog than a toad.” She ended with a few stretches. As she changed into her school shoes, she said, “I have to shower before I go to breakfast. Don’t let me keep you, Bulstrode.”

“So is that dancing?” Millicent followed her out.

“It’s the practice of movements used in ballet. At home I went to class four or five times a week in addition to practising at home. I’m lucky I could do that for as long as I did.”

Millicent parted from her without comment when the route to the Great Hall diverged from the route to the dungeon. Arrakis walked as fast as she could without running. She’d learnt a quick shower routine. Behind the layered wards of Grimmauld Place, Lucretia had taught her a few charms. She had not had to wait for her own wand from Ollivander’s shop, but under supervision practised spells from the time she was nine using the wand of Elladora Black. The lady had died a spinster in 1931 and her wand had been used to teach many Black offspring of the 20th century their first spells. She had charms to dry herself quickly and put her long hair in a simple style. Ponytail bouncing, she made it to breakfast in time for a boiled egg and some fruit before the table was cleared.

Millicent was there, too. They walked together to their first class of the day: Potions, with the Gryffindors. Because they were last to class, they ended up in the back of the room and shared a station.

Snape began the class with a speech. She admired the artfulness of his voice and the way he folded his arms. He held the students’ attention. The boy across the aisle from her, on the Gryffindor side, shivered. He had a soft face, still plump with baby fat, and his round eyes were fixed on Snape.

She didn’t think any more about the boy until she saw him about to add porcupine quills to his cauldron. Arrakis reached across the aisle and held his elbow. “Take your cauldron off the fire before you add those,” she whispered. Mother Black had taught her the art of speaking clearly and softly, especially with use of a fan, as if it was a life-saving skill. Considering what might have happened with that cauldron, maybe it was. The boy glanced at her, his hand opening and dropping the quills on the table. She smiled at him and returned her attention to her own work with a glance up front to where Snape was scowling at her. Millicent elbowed her in the shoulder. Professor Snape said sharply, “Longbottom, Thomas, less gossip and more work! 5 points from Gryffindor.”

Arrakis kept a little attention to her left, as the two Gryffindor boys were still rattled. No more explosions threatened, though their potion looked like a mess. She and Millicent bottled theirs and turned it in for the reward of a curt nod from Snape.

She left class and within a few minutes Dean Thomas caught her up. “What was all that about, Black? Keep your turned up nose out of Gryffindor business.” Neville jogged towards them.

“If he had put those quills in, the potion would have boiled over and splattered everyone near by. You’re welcome to shower in failed potion if you like, but I don’t wish to join in.” She kept her voice even and her eyes on his face. His strayed inevitably to her scar.

“It’s all right, Dean, what’s the harm? She didn’t do anything wrong.” Neville joined them, trying to look dignified. “Thank you, B-Black.” 

“You’re welcome, Longbottom.”

“Snape took points from Gryffindor!”

Millicent loomed over him. She didn’t move her body, but looked at him with her most stolid expression.

The other two Gryffindor boys came up. “Stay away from us, snakes,” snarled the red-haired one.

“Honestly, you act like she sabotaged you instead of stopped Neville from making a mistake!” The words exploded from a bushy-haired Gryffindor girl who had paused nearby.

“Shut it, Granger, and go back to the library,” the fourth boy suggested in a mocking Irish lilt.

“You certainly won’t be there, so I will take the suggestion,” Granger sniffed and walked off. Arrakis fell into step behind her, trailed by Millicent. It was their last class period of the week, and Arrakis was eager to finish up her homework so she could concentrate on her lesson Saturday.

The Gryffindor girl turned around. “Are you following me?”

“I can’t speak for Miss Bulstrode, but I’m going to the library. I have essays to write.”

Millicent heaved a deep sigh.

“Oh—of course. Sorry,” said Granger. “Sorry about that lot, too. The first thing they forget is that House Gryffindor is supposed to be chivalrous.”

“Longbottom hasn’t.”

Granger smiled. “He’s a nice, quiet boy. I think he has a hard time with them.”

Arrakis finished most of her work Friday afternoon. She took advantage of the fall sunshine to walk down by the lake. There was no place to run, so she settled for a brisk pace. Many students were out on the lawns and she picked her way between the groups. When she came across a rocky outcrop no one was seated on, or a tree no one was resting under, she stopped to stretch and flex. Arching her back and resting her head touch against the tree behind her, she took deep breaths.

“What are you doing, cousin Black?”

It was Draco Malfoy of course. He wasn’t her only cousin, but he was one of the closest, and the only one to use the word.

“I’m working on my flexibility and core strength.” Arrakis brought her shoulders forward, drawing her arms up until they were folded against her chest, then let her chin drop and looked at him. He smiled and tilted his head a little. She wondered if he knew that made the light gleam across his platinum blond hair. If he did — why not be artful?

“We all are taught to dance, but aren’t you taking it a little far?”

“I enjoy the challenge of it. It is not an art you can do when you have a few idle moments. If I’m not prepared to dedicate my time to it, what’s the point? You understand the desire to excel.” Only the last was not a prepared statement. Draco was only eleven but he was already pursuing goals beyond his education.

“You are very graceful.”

“Thank you. If you’d like to talk to me, may we keep walking? We spend so much time sitting down.”

“It would be my pleasure.” He kept pace with her, though her legs were slightly longer. Judging by his father’s height, that would change.

“So is there also a ‘boy who lived’? Because there seems to be some confusion.”

“My birth name was Harriet Daisy Potter. I have a scar on my face that magic can’t remove. My parents were James and Lily Potter. That’s all I know.”

“We could have been going to each other’s birthday parties all these years. How sad.”

“June 5th. Happy belated birthdays.” She added after he chuckled, “My guardians preferred to keep my presence in the family discreet. But of course, coming here changed all that.”

“How unfair to you. You should have been socialising with your peers. At least you were sorted into Slytherin.”

“I suppose it only happens in Slytherin that most students enter having already met each other.”

“We’re a select group.” 

Draco was beginning to breathe a little hard, but seemed decently fit. Arrakis turned them towards the castle and slowed her pace. “There are children from old wizarding families in all the Houses.”

“Zacharias Smith brags about being descended from Hufflepuff.”

Arrakis had been drilled on wizarding family trees. She knew this was a tenuous claim, as did Draco by the sneer in his voice.

As they approached the doors, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle fell in behind them like guards. Arrakis felt uncomfortable, though Draco was smiling graciously. She realised after thinking it through that he was making himself look like her patron. When they reached the table, she stepped past him and took the seat on the far side of Millicent.

Saturday morning she got up early to stretch and eat a light breakfast. She wore her leotard under her robe and carried her dance gear in a satchel. By nine she was waiting by the door. Professor Snape was already there.

“Good morning, sir.” She enduring his searching gaze. Arrakis had only meant to be polite and respectful; despite her best efforts so far she was continually wrong-footed with Snape.

“Good morning.” His voice dropped the syllables like tombstones.

The doors opened; the sunlight poured in, blocked by a graceful silhouette. Arrakis had not met her teacher before, but the poise of the figure identified her. She glanced sidelong at Snape. As the authority figure, it was up to him to initiate greetings.

The woman stepped in out of the glare.

“Good morning,” said Snape, exactly as he had said it to Arrakis. “Welcome. I am Professor Severus Snape, head of Slytherin House.”

“Zoya Anatolievna Oyunskaya, dancer and instructor. Zdravstvujtye.” She made a quarter circle around Snape. He watched her without moving at all. A slim blonde woman with a crown of braids, she wore dove grey in contrast to his raven black. “It is permitted, no?”

“The Headmaster has assented.” Snape inclined his head to her and left them.

Oyunskaya looked to Arrakis. “Where is the floor?”

“This way, Madame Oyunskaya.” Arrakis kept her strides long and smooth. The room was on the second floor of Ravenclaw tower, with tall narrow windows at one end.

“Dumbledore should let us have a Floo connection. Next weekend you will be here waiting for me and ready. I will speak with your Head of House after class. Politics and art do not mix well. We must make the most of our time.” While Oyunskaya spoke, Arrakis was setting aside her robe and putting her dance shoes on. Oyunskaya watched every move she made, as she had watched in the hall. “That is if this is not a waste of my time. It took a lot of Black money to persuade me to take you on, and I am the only witch who can teach you ballet. I saw those breakfast tables. Pigs do not fly.”

Oyunskaya produced a box from her robes and unshrank it. It contained a music box that she controlled with flicks of her wand. Arrakis made a note to try to obtain one for herself. It was much better to practise endless pliés and tendus to music. They worked until Arrakis was sore all over.

“Do not go en pointe outside my supervision, until you have my permission to practise by yourself, which you may not have — ever. Your physique is good for ballet, so you have no excuse not to exert your will and develop your talent to its fullest.” She knelt down and grabbed Arrakis’ bare feet, kneading them. “You will have blisters. Care for them. Use the blister lotion but do not heal them directly. You need to understand where you are weak and how your shoes must fit. That your innate magic will work to heal you faster is the one advantage that witches have over Muggle women.” She tweaked Arrakis’ little toe and let go of the feet. “For all my magic and all my hard work, I was never as close to greatness as … as a pimple on the arse of Margot Fonteyn. The great artists are magical beings. And a great dancer has talent and works hard to give that talent a place to shine. You must be a diamond that cuts and polishes itself.”

Arrakis had heard speeches like this before. She hadn’t realised her lower lip was jutting out until Oyunskaya pinched it. “Nyet! Never you forget, recognise the talent of others. Even if you are sick with envy, see their talent. You will never see it in yourself unless you can see it in others. Or see it in others if you can’t see it in yourself.” She smirked, and as Arrakis tried to untangle this, the teacher slipped on her street shoes and her robe. “I will see you next week, Arrashka. The week after that — maybe not.”

She lightly bandaged her feet and returned to the Slytherin dorm. She had missed lunch — she would have to be prepared for that next time, and take something from breakfast. For now, a tub of hot water with salt and herbs was calling to her. Arrakis settled down into the water and let her toes rest against the not-so-far end. It was a small tub that would be a tight fit for Millicent Bulstrode.

As if the thought summoned her, Millicent came in without knocking. She looked down at Arrakis. “You’re going to go down the drain.” 

Arrakis had shared washrooms and lockers with dozens of other girls. She was not body-shy, though Millicent’s entry had subtle menace. The question was whether this was consciously directed. “I’ll get out then pull the plug.”

“You weren’t at lunch.”

“No, my class ran late. It usually won’t. The teacher has to use her own time to get back and forth. I’m lucky she agreed to do it at all.”

“The Blacks have money.”

“A bad teacher wouldn’t be worth it. Did you need something, Millicent?”

“They’re playing chess in the common room. The other girls are playing with their hair. I like gobstones.”

“I think I should like to watch the chess. I don’t have gobstones. Would you like to sit together and watch the chess games?”

“Maybe I will.” Millicent turned and walked out. She certainly had no hesitation in pursuing a course.

Sunday morning found Arrakis seated in the Slytherin common room, writing a letter to Aunt Lucretia. At first she was the only one there, then others trickled in, studying away from those still sleeping in the dorms. She took note of the faces. She should study here and never in the dorms, unless the older students crowded her out. Here is where she would see the children of Death Eaters and their sympathisers — to whom they spoke, who they favoured, who they courted, who they shunned.

That’s how it was supposed to work, in theory, and for now only in theory. She had been taught with old photographs to look for little nuances in attitude. Students studying mostly sat still, eyes and hands moving and nothing else. On the far side of the room, two older girls sat with their heads bent over the same book, speaking in the same low tones she had been taught.

She ended her letter with, ‘ _I miss Kreacher’s tea. What they serve here is not quite to my taste. I do not say this to complain, only to give one more small reason I look forward to coming home at Yule. With respect always, Arrakis._ ’ With luck, Lucretia would mention it to Kreacher. Lucretia had raised her, but she had left a lot of the details to the house elf. As a small child, Arrakis had often hugged the spindly being, a feat that grew more awkward the taller she grew. Nor would Mother Black or Aunt Lucretia tolerate sentimental behaviour. Arrakis kept her affectionate gestures for Kreacher private to the two of them. For his part, his cossetting ways were hidden under fussing and scolding. He was eager for her to behave like a proper lady of House Black but more forgiving of her mistakes than his mistresses.

Arrakis folded her letter and sealed it, then rose to make her way to the owlery. Blaise Zabini followed her out, also bearing a piece of paper. “I think we are on the same errand. Shall we walk together?”

“If you like. For your mother?” She glanced at his letter.

“Yes, I promised to keep in touch.”

Blaise was beautifully mannered. He was less smug than Draco and seemed to enjoy trading polite nothings with her. It was like a game of catch, where the players always threw to each other, and the point was to do it gracefully and smoothly. Perhaps a dance could be made of it, like dancers who worked with hoops or ribbons or fans.

“Knut for your thoughts?”

She had dropped the ball. “I’m sorry! It was not well done of me to forget my manners in admiring yours.”

“Of course you are forgiven if you are going to compliment me.”

They laughed together. Mother Black and Aunt Lucretia had spent hours polishing her social laughter.

Going up the steps of the owlery tower, they met Neville Longbottom coming down. Arrakis smiled at him and said pleasantly, “Good morning.”

“Um, yes, good morning. To both of you.” The Gryffindor boy bit his lip, sidling towards the wall to make room.

“Don’t bother on my account,” Blaise said lightly, barely glancing at Neville with as much interest as if he were a pillar in the path. He moved past without breaking stride.

Arrakis revised her opinion of Blaise’s manners. She smiled into Neville’s eyes as she passed him; he stared back at her in bewilderment, but managed a jerk of his head in acknowledgement.

Blaise had paused a few steps up to wait for her. “What a clumsy bumpkin. No one would ever guess he’s a pure blood.”

“He’s not graceful, but the intent is there. I appreciate it.” It was her turn to pass him without pausing, but he only needed to jump a step to catch up.

“He won’t get any polish in Gryffindor,” Blaise laughed. “Have you seen the Weasley boy eat? If you haven’t — don’t. It will spoil your meal.”

“I’ve my own manners to mind. It’s distracting to eat in the company of so many.”

“All of whom are watching every move you make.”

“Yes. That too.” She smiled ruefully. She hoped it looked as well as it did in the mirror. They reached the owlery and Arrakis selected a school owl to take her letter. As she watched it wing away, she flexed her legs feeling the burn of the stairs in her muscles. “I shall have to write regular letters.”

“My mother will have to settle for monthly.” Blaise joined her, standing close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body but not quite touching her.

“Did you consider any other schools than Hogwarts?”

“My mother is being courted by a British wizard, so we are here for the foreseeable future.” Blaise didn’t say whose future. “I might have enjoyed Beauxbatons. But Durmstrang is far too bleak and cold from everything I’ve heard of it and Ilvermorny is too — American. Perhaps we would have both enjoyed Beauxbatons.” He tilted his head down to hers to match the insinuation in his voice. He was very mature for his age.

Arrakis tried to master her blush. “My parents arranged for my education here, so I respected their wishes. I look forward to travelling outside of Great Britain someday.” She took a step closer to the window and away from him. “The landscape here is beautiful though. So full of history, yet it still looks untamed.”

He laughed. “I could say the same of you, but you would take me for a flirt.”

“I’m having trouble taking you for eleven.”

“I’ll be twelve next month. I’m one of the oldest of our year.”

“I think Granger is the oldest. Flirt with her.” She smoothly pivoted, flowing past him and down the stairs as lightly as she could take them. She didn’t rush, but she didn’t stop either, though she would have if she’d put a foot down clumsily. The turns were interesting challenges. She didn’t hear Blaise trying to catch up. His natural pace was a saunter.

Monday morning, Arrakis woke up to find Millicent already dressed. She didn’t ask what was going on — Millicent would speak when she wished. Arrakis put on her workout gear and covered it with her robe. Millicent followed her out; followed her all the way into the dance studio.

“Show me what you do. The beginning of it.” Millicent took off her robe. She was wearing a loose pyjama top and bottoms.

“Take off your shoes. You’ll have to go barefoot.” Arrakis changed into her ballet shoes. “First, you have to stretch. You have to increase your flexibility. Come stand behind me at the barre.” She led Millicent through a few simple exercises. “Repeat those. If you feel an ache in your muscles, stop and walk around the room. I mean it — don’t try to push too far. You could injure yourself.”

She moved on to her own workout, occasionally glancing at Millicent and correcting her form. The tall girl was not patient, but her dogged determination kept her going even when frustration twisted her face. When her legs tired, Arrakis taught her some arm motions to practise whilst she walked. She was freshly glad for her own ballet-suitable body. Would she have had the nerve to try ballet if she’d been a heavily built child like Millicent? She remembered that first class long ago and how the students dropped away as they realised how much work had to be done before one became a ballerina in a white tutu, spinning on tiptoe.

Who was Arrakis to scorn Millicent, when she herself was so desperately clinging to that dream?


	3. Chapter 3

Mother Black’s commentary on hoydens who played Quidditch whispered in the back of Arrakis’ mind as she stood by a broom, one among the rows of students. She’d never flown. There was no safe area large enough at Grimmauld Place.

“Up,” she said. The broom leaped to her easy grasp. The handle was narrower than the barre, but familiar in its use-polished texture. The corner of her mouth curved up.

Neville Longbottom fell out of the sky. Draco baited the Gryffindors with the glass ball that dropped. Arrakis came to his elbow and held out her hand. “May I have it, please?”

Perhaps he thought she planned some mischief in his vein, for he gave a little bow and handed it over. “My pleasure.”

“Thank you. I’ll return it to Mr. Longbottom after class, or to one of the Gryffindor prefects.” Some of the Gryffindor boys jeered at her. Paying attention to them would only give them what they wanted, so Arrakis turned her back on them and resumed standing by her broom. The Remembrall she tucked into a secure pocket.

Flying was easy; too easy; tempting her to play past her limits. Her body was honed to be aware of small shifts of weight and she could feel the correct way to extend her body to lay flat and increase speed. Wild black locks broke free from her usual pony-tail and trailed about her face. Even growing her hair long had not tamed its waviness and forcing it into a ballet bun took a liberal application of Sleek-easy. She drifted to the ground. Toe-tips touched, but it was not the dance, it was borrowed power. She let herself sink into gravity’s embrace. Arrakis pulled her hair-tie free and shook her hair loose out, leaving it there as class ended. Students began to return to the castle but she was not ready to step inside stone walls yet. In there was work to be done: pages to read; essays to write. Outside, here, the wild geese were flying high over the lake.

At supper, she was one of the last to drift in, and sought shelter in the lea of Millicent’s shoulder.

“Taking grooming lessons from Granger, Black?” Parkinson smiled toothily. “I’m sure it will be the latest craze soon.”

“It wouldn’t suit you. You’re too dainty.” Arrakis smoothed her hair back behind her ears, and nibbled at supper.

Neville wasn’t at supper, so Arrakis went up to the infirmary to look for him. He was sitting on a bed having his arm examined. Madame Pomfrey pronounced it fixed and told him to wait there and she’d have tea sent up for him. She bustled away, and Arrakis took the opportunity to come in. “I’m glad you’re better, Longbottom.”

“Thanks,” he said, not looking up from his knees.

She came closer. “I brought your Remembrall.” Pulling it out of her pocket, she offered up the glass bauble on her outstretched palm.

He accepted it and a red mist swirled up inside it. He sighed.

“Not very useful. If you forgot to bring something with you to school, and remembered what it was, you still wouldn’t have it. And if you haven’t missed it yet, how much do you need it?”

“Grandmother knows I’m always forgetting things.”

“Have you written to her?”

Neville looked up sharply. The red mist faded away from the ball and found its way into the boy’s cheeks. “No.”

“Now it’s just a paperweight.” She shuffled her feet nervously, ungracefully. “I wrote Aunt Lucretia. She’s the only one at home…” This was getting into dangerous waters. If Neville’s grandmother was the only one at his home, she knew who was to blame. Here was another twenty seconds of silence for Bellatrix Black Lestrange.

“Well, now I have something to write her about,” he said glumly.

“Say something nice about Madame Pomfrey. Unless she’s not nice?” She glanced about warily.

“No, she was very kind. I’ll do that.”

Madame Pomfrey reappeared with a tray of food. “Oh, you have a visitor. There’s really not enough for two, though.”

“I’ve had my supper already, I don’t need any more, thank you. I’m Arrakis Black. Mr. Longbottom dropped one of his possessions when he fell. I have returned it to him, and now I should leave him to eat in peace.”

“He’ll be at breakfast tomorrow, hale and hearty.” Madame Pomfrey smiled, but also firmly shooed her out of the room.

“Relevé. Plié. Straighten. STRAIGHTEN. Roll down. Control, always. You are making a line, not a squiggle!” Oyunskaya drew her wand. “Again. Relevé. Plié. Hold.” She flicked her wand, and a glowing bar appeared by the reflection of Arrakis’ leg. “Do not push forward. Feel your pelvis. Stretch up towards the ceiling. Engage your core. Roll down, and again. This is not about your feet only, it is all of you. You are dancing, and if part is wrong, all is wrong.”

Over and over she rose up onto her points. Over and over, she was sent down to the floor to stretch her legs and flex her feet. To lie there whilst Oyunskaya walked over her and slapped bits with a snapping stick to point out muscle groups by their stinging.

“Toes straight! Are you an ape, to go around on your knuckles? Bozhe moi! HEEL FORWARD! What, crying like a baby?”

“The sweat stings my eyes, madame.”

“More work needed on everything!” She put her wand away and offered Arrakis a handkerchief to blot her face. “Take off the pointe shoes. They are kaput. Give them to me.” Oyunskaya examined the inside and outside of the shoe. “See how they are worn on the side here? You need to be mindful of where you put the weight. Do not spare yourself by tilting. If you cannot support evenly, come down. I will give you a list of demi-pointe exercises. Always you must make your feet strong and flexible. You spent most of today waddling like a duck.”

“Yes, madame. I will do better.”

“Never stop trying for perfection, and you will. Next week I will bring another pair of pointe shoes and you can try that make. By the holidays we will be ready for your custom fitting, but even then, you will have to sew your own ribbons on. Nor will the first pair be perfect, because you are not.”

Arrakis did not mind hearing what she’d heard hundreds of times before. Hearing it again made it feel like fate, a future that was coming towards her. That her aching, sweaty body would tiptoe across the floor as if weightless. That she would make graceful lines like the motion of a wand and magic would pour out of her.

Right at the moment, she’d rather like to be an entire puddle, and not just a soaked, gross mass of flesh. Instead she rose, and made the reverences that ended a class with as much grace as she could muster.

Now that they were truly done, Oyunskaya flicked her nose. “You worked hard, Arrashka.”

“Thank you, madame.”

Oyunskaya left and Arrakis cleaned up the room and herself with a few spells. She was decent enough to walk through the corridors, but only a shower would get her really clean. As she started down the stairs into the dungeon, she encountered Professor Snape coming up them. She felt his sharp eyes take her in from the limp bun on her head to her limping feet. The stairs jolted at her.

He held up a hand and she stopped. “You will see Madame Pomfrey.” His nostrils flared, and cleaning charm or no, her need for a wash-up must be obvious to the most skilled nose in the school (or even the United Kingdom.) “Later.”

“Yes, Professor Snape,” she acknowledged as much by blush as by words.

Madame Pomfrey fussed over her, healed her feet and told her to be sure to eat enough. Hogwarts was a challenge to healthy dieting. As dedicated as she was, it pained Arrakis to choose a raw apple instead of a thick slice of pie. Madame Pomfrey gave her a weight range and threatened to put her on nutrient potions if she didn’t eat better. Being so slim was the one thing the other girls envied her; and they marked every bite she put in her mouth and commiserated with her on the weight she must be gaining. She’d been told to expect that. She knew it was a power play. It still hurt. She thought of Narcissa Malfoy, that lovely ice statue with her perfect hair and clothes, her back straight but not rigid, her feet set just so on the rug to show her bespoke shoes and slender ankles. She pulled that image into herself, and smiled across the table at Pansy Parkinson. “It’s so good to have friends watching out for me.”

Millicent came to exercise again Sunday morning, and then each day, wearing away at her own form like a bird flying across the universe to peck at a mountain. Arrakis taught her some more flexibility exercises, but had to persuade her that working her muscles correctly would provide tone without adding bulk.

“I thought you would be on your toes now.”

“Maybe after the holidays. I’ll be fitted for custom pointe shoes. Until then, demi-pointe only. Madame does not allow me to be en pointe in except in her presence so she can correct my form.” Her lips opening to add, ‘and so I don’t damage my feet’, she decided to keep this to herself. Vulnerabilities should not be spoken of. If Millicent wanted to keep her secrets, she would be a vault. If not, Arrakis had no way to stop her. They were a strange pair compared to the fashionable trio of Pansy, Daphne, and Tracey.

“Why are you smiling at me?”

“Was I? I was thinking that I like you.”

Millicent said nothing to this, but if she had something to say, when she got around to it, it would be said.

She settled into school well enough except for Defense. Perhaps it was only Professor Quirrell’s stammered lectures, but she kept getting headaches. When Arrakis found herself rubbing at her scar as if she could get at the pain, she decided this needed to be in her next letter home. An answer came the next morning.

‘ _My dear Arrakis. You did well to inform me. Pay heed to what you are doing, where you are, and who you are with when you feel this pain. Be wary — do not let on that you suffer. Remember what you were told. Remember, Hogwarts is where you will meet your enemies. With love, your Aunt Lucretia Black Prewett._ ’

Arrakis rested her temple against the window, watching the dim waters outside. So what if she was only eleven? She’d been younger than that when Voldemort tried to kill her. A pale gleam shone at the window, but it wasn’t outside, it was the reflection of Draco’s hair.

“Is anything wrong, cousin?” He sat down at the other side of the window seat, glancing at the letter she folded away.

“A touch of homesickness. Silly, when I have so much to do here. Do the merfolk ever come near the window?”

“I’ve heard the giant squid occasionally shows itself. Perhaps they don’t like to come near the castle.” He reached out and took her hand. “Come play chess.”

“One game; then I must finish my Transfiguration essay.”

Arrakis had been taught to play and had played with all the adults in the house. She never beat Great-grandfather; sometimes defeated Lucretia, but the most unpredictable player was Mother Black. She sat by Orion’s portrait and they would argue over tactics. Draco was a good match for her. She didn’t need to defeat him. Even in losing, she could see his mind at work. Arrakis would play at least one game with anyone who challenged her, and usually had to display her ability to gracefully concede defeat. This was a safe way to be beaten.

Draco had more than chess on his mind. “We’re going to play a pickup game of Quidditch this Sunday. You should come. You’re a good flier.”

“I’ve never played Quidditch, though. I’ve never even seen a game.”

“It’s high time you learnt, then. We might not get another chance like this once Quidditch season starts in November. Weasley and I will be captains, and only first years will play.” He leaned closer, and murmured, “I set it up for Sunday for you, as you’re busy Saturdays.”

Her head bent over the board, she looked at him through her eyelashes. “Very well. If I don’t end up playing, I will stay and support your team. Won’t it be mixed houses, though?”

“Captains will pick at the field from whomever shows up. Get Bulstrode to come, she’s already built like a Beater.”

“I’ll speak to her.”

It turned out that Millicent had played before, and was willing to explain the game. Arrakis had never seen such animation on her face before. 

Sunday, she saw why.

Ronald Weasley won the coin toss. “Seamus Finnegan. Seeker.”

“Arrakis Black, Seeker.” Malfoy smirked as though he’d pulled something off.

“Zacharias Smith, Chaser.”

It went on until all the positions were filled, but the other first years were invited to stay as a pool of alternates. Malfoy’s team was Arrakis, Crabbe and Goyle for Beaters, Millicent Bulstrode and Theo Nott as Chasers, along with Morag McDougal of Ravenclaw. Weasley’s team was mixed between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. 

Millicent snickered. “Weasley didn’t trust Slytherins on his team. He should have got Crabbe when Malfoy picked Goyle. They just like hitting things.”

Malfoy picked a Seeker who has never played, thought Arrakis. No sense in revealing a weakness. If they didn’t know, they’d find out.

Malfoy went around his team and had a private word with everyone. He put his hands on Arrakis’ shoulders. “Dodge bludgers. Keep an eye on the other Seeker. Finnegan will be the loud one. Possibly he’ll light himself or something else on fire. It will be fun.”

“It is a game, after all.”

“Yes, that’s why we’re going to win it.” His grey eyes gleamed and he strode off, holding his broom up. “Mount up, Runespoors!”

Arrakis listened, obeyed, but kept her eyes scanning the pitch. That side was their goals, that set of numbers was their score, and the snitch could be anywhere once it was loosed. When she was swooping around, she had to be able to orient herself quickly.

Madame Hooch presided over the game balls, releasing them then sounding her whistle. Arrakis spiralled up and in as she had planned, one of the classic search patterns that Millicent had told her about. On the way she oriented herself more completely to the landmarks of the pitch. Seamus was hooting something at her; if he was looking at her he wasn’t seeing the Snitch, so that was fine. A Bludger growled through the air at her; she rolled away and let it pass, and let the motion turn into a swoop. She flew towards Finnegan until she was close enough to speak to him. “Have you played Seeker before?”

He grinned at her. “A few times. Caught the Snitch. A few times.” He made his broom buck in the air in a rude way.

“Good luck to you, then.” Arrakis pulled her broom handle almost vertical, stalling the flying charms as she dropped straight down. She didn’t know what she was doing, so she might as well try anything new and see how it worked. After a plunge of a dozen feet, she rolled around her core until she came up level again, and veered away. Perhaps she would invent aerial ballet — a uniquely wizard dance form. Much more interesting than catching… catching… oh, there. This time Arrakis pointed the broom front end down, diving fast, perilously close to Ernest MacMillan who yelped and nearly fell off.

“Excuse me,” she said as if they had bumped into each other on the street. Maybe he heard it; maybe he didn’t. She watched where she was going; she watched for that glitter out of the corner of her eye. They were all in motion at once and she had to pass through shared space until she reached her partner in the pas de deux. Finnegan dived out of the sky between her and it, though he was looking the wrong way, the way she was flying. He roared out of his dive, getting ahead of her, but Arrakis was already turning and passing behind him. The Snitch dodged past her. Her body arched off the broom, trained muscles extending, reaching, and taking the golden ball whose fluttering matched the pulse in her wrist. She was almost free of the broom, falling, only her ankles and feet holding the handle.

They were both tumbling, she and the broom. The ground was so close. The Snitch lay trusting and trembling in her fist. She kicked one foot up along the broom handle and pushed it up into her grabbing hand. Not exactly stage-ready, but the flying charm slowed her fall and granted her a soft tumble onto the ground. She rolled over a couple of times and lay on her back looking up, broom in one hand and Snitch in the other.

Arrakis blinked at the sun. The she blinked at Malfoy’s face with the sun haloing his fair hair. “That was fun,” she admitted.

He smirked down at her. “That’s why it’s a game.”

Madame Hooch dropped to one knee beside her. “Anything broken? Anything painful?”

“I’m not flying.”

Hooch held up two fingers and tried to get Arrakis to follow them. She was gradually coming back to a sense of her body. “I think I’m all right, Madame Hooch.” She let go of the broom and sat up, Malfoy slipped his arm around her shoulders to support her.

“Enough to stand up?” he asked.

Her body felt a little jarred, but there was no real pain. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s a weird feeling, is all, to be flying then suddenly not flying.”

Madame Hooch grumbled, “I’m sending you off to Madame Pomfrey all the same. Snitch, please.” Arrakis reluctantly handed it over and let Malfoy help her to her feet. She thanked him but took a few steps free of his slightly oppressive embrace. “Of course, Madame Hooch. I don’t want you to be worried.”

“I’ll walk with you.” Millicent powered past Malfoy, a head taller and half again as wide. She matched steps with Arrakis and they headed unhurriedly to the castle. The other Runespoors and those who had supported them called out praise that she accepted with a smile and a wave.

Madame Pomfrey checked Arrakis over and pronounced her fine, but reminded her again not to skimp on meals.

“I’m going to finish my Charms essay, Millicent. Want to go to the library with me?”

“What was that thing you did with your leg?”

Arrakis stood still trying to remember. “I didn’t really think about it. I just pushed the broom handle up to my hand with my foot, since I still had my feet on the broom. I was thinking about it being like the barre.”

“You looked like you were splitting in two.”

“I suppose it must have looked quite odd. I’ll show you how I do a split tomorrow, but don’t try it until you are much more flexible.”

They settled into the library as if it was any other day. That night, though, Arrakis flew in her dreams, standing balanced en pointe in a pose like the ‘Flying Mercury’ statue.

Quidditch was fun, but ballet was for life. Her own thing, beyond magic, beyond the scar on her face—the scar which kept hurting at odd times, though never when she was on the dance floor.

For Arrakis, Halloween had always been about remembering the dead. There had been a special feast, and later a family ritual that ended at the last stroke of midnight. There were no bats and pumpkins and skeletons, no heaps of decorated biscuits or pyramids of chocolate. So she was not that sorry that the festivities were interrupted by Professor Quirrell’s troll. The teachers dealt with it all somewhere out of sight.

It was good to be home for the holidays. She ignored Kreacher’s grumbles and kissed the top of his head. His ear tips turned bright red. When she passed Mother Black’s portrait in the hall she paused to greet her with the old-fashioned courtesies that the woman had taught her. Finally, she arrived at the salon. Aunt Lucretia smiled from her chair and held out a hand. “Come here, child.”

Arrakis didn’t remember how she crossed the floor, but she dropped to her knees at Lucretia’s feet and put her cheek against the woman’s knee. Lucretia took hold of Arrakis’ braid and gently turned her head.

“You don’t look any thinner than before. Good. Your teachers speak well of you.” She sighed and ran a thumb over the girl’s cheekbone. “Over supper you can tell me about your classmates.” Lucretia didn’t ask any more questions. She stroked Arrakis’ head. They sat quietly together for a time.

Lucretia left the bad news until after supper. “I’ve spoken with Madame Oyunskaya. She tells me you have been working hard in her lessons. However, we both agree that you should not return to the regular dance class. Already those girls are ahead of you. It is not fair to the school to ask them to work with you part-time. If you wish to continue, Madame Oyunskaya will keep teaching you.”

The fear of this moment, long-anticipated, slid into her heart like cold steel. “I understand. May I be excused?” The tears were not yet overflowing her eyes, but her voice sounded wet despite her best efforts.

“You may. Goodnight, dear.”

“Goodnight, Aunt Lucretia.”

Arrakis went upstairs to cry. Unasked, Kreacher bought her hot chocolate and pretended not to see her snotty face. The rich creamy warmth rolled over her tongue.

She could quit ballet. Then she could guzzle down hot chocolate without a care. A few more pounds on her would scarcely be noticed.

A broom wouldn’t notice them. “Hah. Can’t ride a broom at home, can’t learn ballet at school. So they say.” Arrakis stretched her legs out and flexed the muscles of her calves and feet. “And Voldemort is alive. And he’s going to try to kill me again.” It didn’t sound real even when she said it aloud. Great-grandfather had warned her that her life would be hard and unfair. What would it have been like, to have been left with her mother’s kin? Mother Black had said, and Aunt Lucretia agreed, that they had been glad to give her up like a puppy they would have drowned rather than raise. Mother Black despised Muggles, but if Aunt Lucretia said it too, it must be true. What would have become of little Harriet Daisy Potter?

She undid her braid and shook her hair loose to wave wildly down her back. They were still confused at Hogwarts about the Boy Who Lived being the Girl Called Black. Let it stay that way. “Confusion to the enemy.” Arrakis toasted herself with her hot chocolate. It was a small cup, after all.

The next day Oyunskaya took them both out to get Arrakis fitted for custom fitted pointe shoes. Over the first term, Oyunskaya had tried her in various shoes to find the manufacturer who best suited her. They were all Muggle manufacturers, of course. Aunt Lucretia consoled herself for going without a robe by wearing a sable coat that had belonged to her mother. She swept onto the sales floor, demanded and got a proper chair to sit in rather than a vulgar folding chair. She sat, still, silent, her thin face and white hair floating against the black fur.

The saleswoman was extremely respectful to Oyunskaya. They handled Arrakis’ feet, asking her detailed questions and expecting detailed answers about the fit. They settled on the right fit and padding, and left Arrakis to sew her own ribbons on as her teachers had always insisted. She was used to it now. Accepting the importance of good handiwork, she had learnt to be quick and neat. Once the shoes were ready, she slipped them on and tied the ribbons up her ankles.

“Breathe. It is expected that you are excited. That does not mean you should jitter about.”

“Yes, Madame,” Arrakis said, taking deeper, slower breaths. She rose without pushing up with her hands and walked to the barre. Oyunskaya directed her through a few basic exercises. Afterwards the shoes came off again and they checked her feet. It was the most comfortable Arrakis had ever felt in pointe shoes. She’d dance home in them, but they were fragile things and expensive. Two dozen pairs were ordered with her specific requirements. “No more than that. We shall see if your feet change. Likely that many will get you through the spring.”

(Later, as she’d promised, she danced for Kreacher — some pas de bourré, a pirouette, and an arabesque. He wept.)

As a surprise, Aunt Lucretia took them to the ballet on the night that the stand-ins were performing so they could see Oyunskaya as the Sugar Plum Fairy. Oyunskaya was the oldest member of the company, even with years chopped off her official age. Arrakis had never seen one of her teachers dance a major role. Her muscles quivered in sympathy to the effort behind the effortlessness. She wanted to be that grace.

Lucretia had a giant bouquet of lilac roses presented to Oyunskaya at the end of the performance. They did not wait to dine with her, as she was expected to dine with the other dancers that night to celebrate her last appearance in a solo performance with the company. She came to Grimmauld Place the next evening. Kreacher brought out the royal service for her; though only three places were set at the table it was as fine a dinner as Arrakis had ever seen served there.

After dinner, the ladies retired to the parlor and Arrakis was allowed a half-glass of sherry.

Oyunskaya crossed her slender ankles and swirled the sherry glass. “Arrashka, I do not need to ask if you enjoyed the ballet. I see respect in your eyes; that is a fine tribute.”

“It was a perfect evening,” murmured Lucretia. Her hands twisted around the serviette on her knee, crumpling the fine linen. Arrakis tensed at once. Something was wrong.

Oyunskaya inclined her head graciously to Lucretia. “I’m pleased you could both be there. Wizards attend the ballet, but I have rarely found any sympathy in the wizarding world for the work of artists. Why would a witch dance when she can fly? A school friend once asked me that, and I had no answer then for why I wanted to devote years of my life shaping myself into a dancer. In the end, the answer is—I wanted to. Even when I realised that being a great star was a dream beyond my grasp, I still wanted to make music with my body. To be the instrument of beauty. To speak with the language of the dance. To be a dancer is to be a willing human sacrifice for the sake of art. That sounds noble, does it not?” She flicked Arrakis’ nose.

“Yes, it does.” Arrakis waited for the other pointe shoe to drop.

“I have no family. I have no position in our world. I have had my dream, and I do not regret it, but what I have sacrificed is still gone, and I must keep paying for what I had. And I live in a time where once more those who scorn our fellow human beings as Muggles gain power. Because they wish to see all humans without magic as less than themselves, they must see as less anything the Muggles produce. And those who are less may have everything taken from them, including their lives. You, Arrakis, the girl who was Harriet, stand by no wish of your own at the heart of this conflict. If it was not so, why I would let Mrs. Prewett pay me to teach you ballet and we would try to bring some beauty to counterbalance the ugliness in this world.”

“But it is not so.” Lucretia’s voice was carefully measured, her hands folded in her lap. Her sherry glass was empty.

“Yet I will not give up on you, Arrashka. One day you may yet have your chance to perform on stage. As a witch, you have more time.”

“And because you have enemies, you must spend your time wisely. I have not heard near enough of what is happening in Slytherin House. Before your dancing, before your classes, you must learn your fellow witches and wizards, in Slytherin and out of it, in your peer group and out of it.” Lucretia pinched her lips tightly closed and looked aside.

Oyunskaya took the words up. “You are dancing together; be aware of your company. Your training will give you a graceful deportment beyond the clumsiness of other adolescent girls. Let them copy you as best they can. The Bulstrode girl saw value in it right away.”

“I let you be lax the first term, Arrakis. You cannot help but be an outsider; no one would respect you as a follower. You have been raised in the company of adults. You cannot afford to be a child among children.” Lucretia’s words ended in a rasp and she held a handkerchief to her lips, coughing. “Pardon me.”

Oyunskaya extended her arm, brushing her fingertips against Arrakis’ cheek. “I have sworn myself to the Black family as a vassal. That doesn’t entitle me to all the family secrets, but it enjoins me to work on your behalf.” Her head tilted to match the cant of Arrakis’ head; their eyes met and hers slid towards Lucretia before a veil of lashes came down. Lucretia tipped a potion vial to her lips and drank.

“I understand. My dance training is a luxury which I may only have in moderation.” Arrakis tried to conceal her wince at the stilted words—it was hard to sound adult.

“You are a good child, Arrakis, and receive less than you deserve. This will not change until you can find your way to a position of strength.” Lucretia’s voice was smooth again. “I have news of import. In the process of executing my father’s will, Mr. Stroud was unable to determine the true legal status of Sirius Orion Black. It seems he was sent to Azkaban without a trial and until he has been tried with the full authority of the law, he can neither receive his inheritance or be declared ineligible to receive his inheritance. This must be done publicly so there is no shred of doubt about who is the true heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. You may be asked to appear in court; the Headmaster will be informed. As a minor you will have no specific role except to attest to your adoption and the terms of the will that were vouchsafed to you.”

That news was the second oddest Christmas present Arrakis received. When she sorted through her presents, she found an soft package unmarked except for her name. When she opened it, a length of fabric slid out upon which swirled odd silvery patterns. Silently, it cascaded from her lap to the floor. The only sound made was a rustle of paper from a note that had been caught up in its folds. It read: ‘This was your father’s and now it is time it passed to you,’ but was otherwise unsigned. It was a cloak of antique style. It was beautiful. It gave her a strange feeling. It made her invisible. Arrakis stared at her face floating in the mirror. Who else knew she had this wondrous thing? She packed it away in her school trunk and pulled out the pictures of her birth parents. James Potter had been a prankster at school. An invisibility cloak would be an excellent aid, but… if that was all it was, why return it?

So. Now Arrakis-Harriet Black-Potter had an invisibility cloak. It didn’t help with sound. Kreacher knew her by footstep alone. The floors were old and had their characteristic squeaks — nothing like the quality of a dance floor. She’d learnt how to dance without clopping about like a herd of cows. Now to apply it to being invisible. When the cloak moved around her, did it expose her? She experimented in front of her cheval mirror, twisting and turning to see if her legs became visible. As long as the cloak was properly draped around her, nothing showed. Her arms were most likely to show when she reached out to open a door or pick something up.

Back at school lay greater challenges. Could she get away with spying? She’d like to hear something of what was being said behind her back. There might be tale-tells she wasn’t noticing so it was better to begin practising basic sneaking and save the invisibility for getting out of trouble. What was the best way to get in and out of the Slytherin dorms without attracting attention? Where might she sit in the common room to overhear others speaking? When did the teachers and prefects patrol and where? And who might be able to perceive her even cloaked? Professor Snape and the Headmaster were at the top of that list, followed by Filch’s cat. Hiding places would be better.

How was she supposed to do all this, keep up with her classes, insinuate herself into House Slytherin politics, and practise ballet? Maybe she should just wing it and if she was lucky she’d be expelled and the Blacks would kick her to the curb and she’d be a dancer by night and a welder by day.

Her visit home ended with a funeral, that of Mother Black’s aunt, Cassiopeia Black. It was scantily attended. She had never met Cassiopeia; the woman had lived in seclusion having never married nor had children. The Malfoys were there, as was a tall man Lucretia introduced as Bartemius Crouch. He glared at the Malfoys when he wasn’t ignoring them. Lucretia was the chief mourner, being of the same generation though older by ten years. She wore the sable coat again, but often rested her hand on Arrakis’ shoulder. Her gloves were made of black dragonhide, from the throat where the scales were tiny and the skin was so thin that it took an expert to work with it. Cassiopeia was interred near Arcturus. Looking at the recent markers, one had to notice that Blacks were dying but there’d been no news of any being born. The last of the main family to be born was Sirius’ younger brother Regulus.

Cassiopeia’s will directed that her dower vault be given to Arrakis. She left a collection of rare books to Bartemius Crouch and ten thousand Galleons to Narcissa Malfoy. Narcissa traded a look with her husband that Arrakis couldn’t guess the meaning of, but Lucretia explained later that the round sum meant there was money left elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madame Oyunskaya has a Russian father, but was raised in England and plays up a Russian stage persona. So she is meant to sound rather cliched. This is me trying to make a virtue of my lack.


	4. Chapter 4

On a cold Sunday afternoon, she wandered about in areas of the castle she’d not previously visited, trying doors and looking into unlocked rooms. As if it had been lying in wait for her, the gilded frame of the mirror gleamed from across the room. A dust sheet lay fallen on the floor at its foot as it were a lady caught changing clothes. Like the performer she had been training to be since she was three, Arrakis went over to look at her reflection.

Stage lights shone on a slender figure dancing a chassé, a glissade; now a pas de basque; then a pas de bourrée. “’Giselle’,” Arrakis whispered, recognising the choreography of her favourite ballet. The dancer came to the end of the routine and the audience rose in applause. There was Aunt Lucretia and Madame Oyunskaya, with Kreacher leaping about beside them. Great-grandfather Black and Mother Black rose from their fauteuils, applauding with the restrained fervour that etiquette dictated. Glowing with pride, James and Lily Potter stood up and called for an encore.

Arrakis turned abruptly and found herself face to face with Professor Dumbledore. She swayed in place and he put out a hand to cup her elbow. “Do not let what you see trouble you, Harriet. Did you look at the legend written on the frame?” He looked past her and she followed his gaze. “Read from right to left.”

She sounded the words out. “And what if I don’t want to want something that can never be?”

“The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing. What you desire may change as you do, for the young especially change swiftly. The Mirror of Erised is not a trustworthy guide.”

“Mirrors always get everything the wrong way around. And my name is Arrakis Black. The Harriet the Potters would have raised died with them. May I go, Headmaster?”

“You may.”

She made a curtsey to his authority, but her exit was more flight than dignity. As late as it was, as cold as it was, instead of going down to the dungeons she went out onto the grounds and stood bare-headed in the open. The low sun threw great inky shadows across the trodden down snow and hid the ice.

Hagrid’s great shadow went unnoticed, as did his deep voice until he patted her shoulder. “Catch yer death, won’cher?. Not so much as a coat on.” He pulled his muffler off and dropped it over her shoulders in great woolly loops. She looked up at him. Whatever was in her face made his expression crumple in worry. “Can’t be so bad that a nice cuppa won’t help.”

Arrakis found herself sitting on a barrel in Hagrid’s hut with a large mug of tea warming her hands. She was nearly mummified in Hagrid’s muffler. Vast, knitted of thick yarn, it began to feel rather scratchy now that she was not out in the cold. “It’s Arrakis, now. I don’t remember being called Harriet, growing up. It feels weird to be called that.”

“’Must mind on it, then. To me, Harriet is that tiny little’un with the fresh scar. That wrecked ‘ouse… Dumbledore sent me. Sad, sad day.” He peered at her from under his massive eyebrows. “Were ya happy, growing up with the Blacks instead o’ the Dursleys? From what I heard…” he trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“They were good to me. Mr. Hagrid, did you know my parents?”

He laughed. “Mr. Hagrid was my old dad. Just Hagrid is fine. That I did, fine young witch and wizard that they were. Yer dad was set on yer mum from th’first he saw her, but she wouldn’t have nowt to do with him for years.” Hagrid kept trying to tell her stories but always tripped up on Sirius Black. She thought about mentioning the trial, but it would all come out in public anyway. He also had trouble with her name: Harkis, Arrest, Hairrykiss. She hoped he never did it in front of the other students; she would never live it down. Once she’d had her tea, Hagrid wrapped her in a blanket and dragged her up the hill on a sled.

A few weeks later, Arrakis got to see her cousin and godfather in the flesh for the first time. Azkaban had worn Sirius down nearly to his ancient and noble bones. They had allowed him to bathe and shave and have his hair trimmed, but nothing disguised how sunken his grey eyes were or how the skin stretched over the skull showing under his face. He reminded Arrakis disturbingly of Arcturus who had died three times his age.

His eyes passed over her without recognition, though he knew Lucretia. A grin twisted from mocking to mad on his lips.

They gave him Veritaserum. And he told the truth. He was not a Death Eater. He had not killed Peter Pettigrew or the Muggles. He had not betrayed the Potters. As far as he knew, Peter Pettigrew was still alive.

Lucretia pressed a handkerchief to her lips and resorted to the potion vial again.

Arrakis did not have to testify in court, only attest her identify, both by birth and adoption, before a Ministry clerk. Young Mr. Stroud supervised the business of clarifying the Black family inheritance and collected copies of the documents. “These will be filed with Gringotts,” he informed the clerk, “on behalf of the family.”

“Understood, Mr. Stroud.” The clerk’s voice was as miffed as he could get away with, which was only slightly.

Lucretia took Mr. Stroud’s arm. “See us to the Floo, young man. The vulgar curiosity of people leads them to spectate a trial as if it was put on for their amusement and creates unnecessary crowding.”

“It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Prewett.”

Arrakis followed them. She hoped to see Sirius Black again but later found out he was taken to St. Mungo’s for comprehensive medical treatment. Instead of the public Floo connections in the Ministry lobby, Mr. Stroud escorted them to the Auror offices in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There was not much to see. The offices with doors had closed doors; the other desks were mostly concealed behind dividing walls that partitioned the area without reaching the ceiling.

They were met by a tall, dark Auror whose calm authority was not rattled by Lucretia’s hauteur.

“Auror Shacklebolt, good afternoon.”

“Welcome, Mrs. Prewett. Will you and Mr. Stroud be waiting with Miss Black?”

“We will not. Arrakis, Albus Dumbledore will join you here and you will use the Floo in this office to return to Hogwarts.” They exchanged bises. “I look forward to your letters, my dear. Write soon; so will I.”

“I will, Aunt Lucretia.”

As Lucretia left, Arrakis glimpsed her slipping the potion vial from her clutch.

“I’m Kingsley Shacklebolt, Miss Black. I do not know how long it will be before the Headmaster is ready to return to Hogwarts, so I have assigned an Auror trainee to keep you company. This is a working office, and you cannot be expected to know what to avoid. Tonks!”

“Sir!” A young woman with aggressively pink hair came forward. Her robe caught on the edge of a divider wall and the last step turned into a stumble.

“This is Nymphadora Tonks; Tonks, meet Miss Arrakis Black. The Headmaster will be here soon to accompany her back to Hogwarts. Please look after her until then.” He gave them both a stately nod then moved off deeper into the office.

“Wotcha, Arrakis. Is that what you liked to be called? I go by ‘Tonks’ myself, not that I can convince Mum of that.” She smiled at Arrakis. Her eyes abruptly changed to the same green Arrakis saw in the mirror.

Arrakis had thought she knew what to expect in Nymphadora Tonks: daughter of Andromeda Black Tonks and her Muggleborn husband Ted, a witch with the rare metamorphagus gift. This smiling, coarse-accented young woman with her mobile features and clumsy mien did not resemble the picture she’d built in her mind.

“My dance teacher calls me ‘Arrashka’. It’s not shorter, but it’s easier to say.”

“Like to dance, do you? That must be why you look graceful even standing still. You make me feel like I have three left feet instead of the usual two.” The corners of her mouth hiking up, Tonks’ eyes went to the floor.

Arrakis followed the gaze. Tonks had morphed her right foot into a left one.

“I know very little about the metamorphagus ability. Could you?”

“No, I have to stick within the range of a human body. C’mon, let’s get some tea down your neck. Who knows how long Professor Dumbledore will be politicking? Hope Robards hasn’t nicked the last biscuit. There were spicy sausage rolls this morning.”

A voice floated up from beyond a partition. “Moody.”

“No sausage rolls left, got it.” Tonks got them cups of tea and an assortment of foods: powdery lemon biscuits, tea muffins with pecans, and a cheese sarnie divided into four bite-size pieces. They had their tea sitting in a drab little room furnished with a table and two chairs. Tonks sat in the one with chains on. “’S’interrogation room. People don’t normally have tea in them but this way we can chat without disturbing anyone else chatting, um, working.” She grinned. “Ah, you laughed finally, I was worried you couldn’t. Can I called you Arrashka, then?”

“I can’t imagine you calling me Miss Black.”

“I can put on airs, but I hate it. Mum tries to teach me; says it’s a valuable skill. It makes me want to break out and do something wild.”

“Doesn’t that make it hard to be an Auror?”

“It does. I could never do it if I didn’t want this so much. Is that what you want, to be a dancer?”

“Yes, but there are so many other things I have to do.” Tonks’ face briefly shifted into Arrakis’ own, even to a lightning bolt scar. Arrakis wasn’t sure if she was even aware of it.

“But you do this anyway. How long have you been learning?”

Arrakis explained about ballet school. Tonks’ eyes went cartoonishly huge when she realised that it was a Muggle school.

“Can you show me a little? My dad is Muggleborn, but he likes sports. I’ve seen it, I’ve seen pictures, of ballet.”

Arrakis paused a moment, then nodded and slipped her shoes off. “The techniques are about understanding how the parts of your body work together so you can control them. You develop strength and balance.” She faced the wall ready to touch it if need be and ran through a series of extension and balance exercises. On demi-pointe on one foot, while the other foot pointed almost straight up; balancing on demi-pointe into an arabesque, her arms slowly curving through the air; reaching to nearly touch the floor with her hand as her raised leg lifted to point at the ceiling. “The aim is to move so that the body forms harmonious shapes. It’s not only the placement of the feet, it all matters: the legs, the tilt of the hips, the bend of the waist, the set of the shoulders, the hand and arm positions, and everything about the head. If a dancer’s body is perfectly positioned, but they are grimacing, it’s all ruined. It should look effortless.”

Tonks shook her head. “You make me feel like I don’t even know how to sit,” she laughed.

Arrakis pivoted, took one step forward and dropped lightly into her seat. “Dancers have to think about their body all the time. I have spent years strengthening my body in specific ways, especially the feet, but I have to deal with the shape that I have. I can’t imagine what it would be like to change so easily.”

Tonks was staring at her. Her body began to shift, until it was Arrakis sitting there in Tonks’ clothes. But it was still Tonks’ pose and Tonk’s poise, that were very little like Arrakis’ own. Even this began to shift to something closer, until Tonks let it all go with a laugh. “That was really hard, and I still fudged it up. It’s useful as an Auror to be able to change my appearance without a glamour, but I’ve been caught out by people who know me.”

“Dance lessons might help with that.”

“It’s a good idea, but think of the poor teacher.” Tonks shook her head in mock sorrow.

Shacklebolt called them to the front. Dumbledore was waiting. He smiled at her, but he looked weary and the twinkle of his eyes was subdued. He took her through the Floo to his office and led her down to the Great Hall. Everyone was there waiting for supper to begin. The hum of noise rose to an angry beehive of speculation as they came in. Arrakis joined the Slytherin table between Theo Nott and Draco Malfoy, as that was the place waiting for her.

The tables filled with food. The people in the nearby seats all stared at her expectantly. Arrakis gave in to the peer pressure and said, “Sirius Black was cleared of all charges after questioning under Veritaserum.”

It got passed along, somehow making it to other tables as well. Arrakis filled her plate — a couple of spoonfuls of beef stew, heavy on the beef, servings of green beans almondine and glazed carrots.

Blaise Zabini was trying to catch her eye across the table but there was no way she could hear him in the hubbub. Draco took a piece of bread and applied a gloss of butter to it. “That must be unsettling for the family,” he remarked, taking couth nibbles of his bread.

“I’m sure Mrs. Prewett will handle it.”

“Did you talk to him?” asked Theo.

“No, there wasn’t any call for it.” She smiled. “I got to Floo back with Professor Dumbledore, from the Floo at the Auror Office to the Headmaster’s Office. It was kind of him to allow that.”

“And to let you off class,” Theo smiled.

“I hope someone will let me copy their notes. It’s not very fun to be let off class if you have to make up for it.”

Draco smiled. “I’d be glad to show you what we covered in Potions.” She accepted: Draco was the best of the Slytherin first years in that class.

‘ _My dear Arrakis,  
Sirius has refused to spend his convalescence at Grimmauld Place. He is residing at the Black Manor property. Kreacher informs me that he is staying at the lake cottage, so I have not much hope that he has decided to refurbish the Manor. You have never visited there, as Father claimed Grimmauld Place could be better secured. In truth, I believe the Manor reminded him too much of my late mother, to whom he was happily wed.  
Mr. Stroud mentioned to me that when he laid out the family business affairs to Sirius, that this included your upbringing as a Black. I’m sure he will wish to see you as soon as it can be arranged. However, as I have custody of you in the eyes of the Ministry, I would prefer you not interrupt your school year any further.  
With love, your aunt Lucretia Black Prewett_’

“He did have a dragon. He’s a fool, after all. The man lives in a wooden hut!”

“I’m not lying — I would have liked to have seen a dragon hatch,” said Theo Nott.

Draco flipped back from adult contempt to boyish excitement. “It could breathe fire right away, when it wasn’t even steady on its feet.”

Arrakis listened to the talk of a dragon with interest. But she was not at all interested in a plot to get some idiots into trouble, and resumed her studies. When she heard later that Draco had to serve detention in the Forbidden Forest, she was only surprised by where the detention was.

The weekend they found out someone was killing unicorns, Arrakis held a tea party for the Slytherin girls of her year. She lured even Parkinson with the promise of petits-fours from a famous French bakery. As a party, it was not ultra formal, but she had permission from Professor Snape to use an antique tea service from the 1800s that had been retired for something more plebeian and durable over a century ago. The set had been custom made for Slytherin House and featured silver trim instead of the usual gold. The china had designs of wisteria flowers on the sides with green snakes forming decorative borders.

Arrakis had bribed the prefects and certain key senior Slytherins with a share of petits-fours. As she had to hold it in the common room, she needed their support to be sure that the party was not disturbed by petits-four raiders. Professor Snape turned up during tea. Ostensibly he was only having a word with the prefects, but they all felt the scan as he made sure they were not being rowdy with the historic china. (He did leave with an apricot glazed petit-four.) All of them were showing off their best tea party etiquette. Even Millicent Bulstrode whose bulk seemed ill-suited to it, displayed that she had been carefully taught to keep her movements small and how to daintily eat little morsels of food. 

The party conversation consisted mostly of Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson trying to find out everything she knew about Sirius Black, who had just become the most eligible bachelor in the Wizarding World. Millicent Bulstrode dropped a rock into the softly flowing stream of Pansy’s discourse as she was musing on how young most wizard couples married and started a family. “My mum said Sirius Black was the biggest flirt in Hogwarts, except never with Slytherin girls. He sorted Gryffindor, you know.”

The others hadn’t known. Arrakis had known it for so long that she had ceased to think of it, having learnt to tune out Mother Black’s rants about her wayward, disgraced son. “It seems to have been most unexpected.” Arrakis certainly wasn’t going to air Black family scandals to outsiders.

“When Blacks have sorted Slytherin for centuries, I suppose so,” sniped Pansy.

“Here I am, certainly.” A simple statement of uncontested fact was useful to defuse unpleasantness. It signalled that the other party would have to take responsibility for discord. Arrakis dabbed her lips with the fine linen napkin that went with the tea service. One corner of it was embroidered with the Slytherin device from the Hogwarts coat of arms. 

Daphne asked Millicent, “Was there any girl he was particularly interested in, that your mother knew of?”

“Marlene McKinnon.”

That stopped conversation abruptly. The McKinnon family had been wiped out by Death Eaters. Arrakis had a feeling Millicent was done tea partying. The petits-fours were nearly but not all gone, as all of them knew better than to appear piggish. She folded her napkin and laid it to the left of her plate. “I’m so glad you could all join me today. I hope you enjoyed the petits-fours as much as I did. Thank you for the favour of your company.” She rose from her seat. The other girls murmured their thanks for the party and drifted off. Arrakis used tongs to put the uneaten petits-fours back into their box under the gaze of lurking Slytherin boys. Then she summoned a house elf to take charge of the tea service and thanked her with a petits-four. The box she placed on a side table where treats were commonly shared, and slipped out of the room knowing it would be a wonder if they weren’t all gone before she made it out the door. Slytherin boys were still boys, after all. She finished her hostessing duties by writing Professor Snape a thank you note in her best penmanship. Once that was sent, Arrakis lay down on her bed and gazed around the round window and the dim waters beyond it. The petits-fours felt like a lump of sugar and fat in her stomach. She should walk, but she was so tired. As the alternative was to lie there, feeling sorry for herself and getting fatter, she got up to walk.

The next week Cygnus Black, Draco’s grandfather died. Draco was sent for to attend the funeral, but Aunt Lucretia instructed Arrakis to stay at Hogwarts. She was to spend the week in light mourning (dark or black clothes, extra care in dress and grooming, and not to indulge in food or seek out amusements). She was sympathetic to Draco, but she’d never met Cygnus and understood he had not approved of Arcturus’ adoption of her. Draco didn’t show much upset, but then he was trained to have composure. After all, he was Cygnus’ only grandson; his only grandchild but for the proscribed Nymphadora Tonks.

She wrote Tonks a letter, not of condolence but of thanks. 

‘ _Dear Tonks: I was thinking of you and I wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed meeting you. You make the world brighter around you. With respect, Arrakis Black_ ’

There was not a word in it about Cygnus Black. That was for Tonks to speak of, if she wanted to do so. Arrakis thought Tonks was sharp enough to know why Arrakis was thinking of her.

The night of the funeral, Arrakis was called to the Headmaster’s office. She wore her school uniform, but also put on a jet ring and a black velvet ribbon to tie off her braid.

Professor McGonagall was waiting to escort her up the stairs. Arrakis twisted the jet ring around her finger. Aunt Lucretia had been ill last time she saw her. Her fears were not borne out. Sirius Black was with Professor Dumbledore. They were both smiling. Black got up from his chair as they came in, searching her face with bright, eager eyes. “Hello—Arrakis.” His body trembled in place. He held out his hand.

“Hello, cousin Sirius.” She took his hand to shake, but instead he covered her hand with his other one and held it for a long moment.

“You have such a look of your parents. The best of both of them, I think.”

“Thank you. Have you come to take me to the funeral after all?”

He rubbed his chin. “No, I came to see you. The last time I saw you…” His lashes swept down over his grey eyes. “You were such a little thing, too little to remember Uncle Padfoot from back then.”

“No, I don’t remember my life then. I’m sorry, I wish I did.”

“I will send for some tea,” said Professor Dumbledore, and moved out of immediate hearing.

“I can’t take you out to supper without Mrs. Prewett’s permission, but I wanted to spend a little time with you. You should have known me all your years, as if I was James’ true brother and not just a friend.” He collapsed into a chair, a hand half-covering his face. “I failed your parents and I failed you. But anything I can do for you now, I want to do.”

“Would you go to the funeral?”

His hand dropped away and he raised a startled face. “Why? Were you close with Cygnus?” His tone begged the question.

“I never met him. But Aunt Lucretia is there, and she has been ill. I would be there for her, but she forbade me to go.”

“I hope she has been good to you. I—that house—I did not have a happy childhood there. I can hardly bear to think of you there.” With his eyes wide and staring, the shades of Azkaban stirred under his skin.

Arrakis took a single long step forward and sank to one knee at his feet, as she had knelt beside Arcturus Black’s chair. “I was cared for. They were all concerned for me; they wanted me to be strong and quick-witted as well as be a proper young lady. I called your mother, ‘Mother Black’, but it was Aunt Lucretia who spent the most time with me and loved me. I don’t think it was the childhood Harriet Potter would have had, but I have been happy.”

His eyes glistened. The Black family training held—no tear was allowed to fall. “Then I owe Mrs. Prewett a great debt and I will go look after her.” He stood up, lifting Arrakis with him. “Professor Dumbledore, I won’t be able to stay for tea. If I may use your Floo, I’ve a funeral to attend.”

“Please help yourself,” Dumbledore assented, gesturing towards the Floo powder.

With shaky fingers, Sirius rubbed the point of Arrakis’ shoulder. “I’ll write you, kiddo.” He screwed a smile onto his face, took a pinch of Floo powder, and stepped into the fireplace.

Arrakis’ knees sagged and she caught herself into the chair.

“I think a cup of tea is in order. At this hour, oh, chamomile-mint, with a dollop of honey.” A tea tray appeared on his desk. A cup of tea was handed to Arrakis, ot which point she realised that the Headmaster of Hogwarts was serving her himself. She took the cup and looked up at him wonderingly. He offered her a dish. “Ginger biscuit?”

“Thank you, sir.” She followed his example of breaking the biscuit and dunking it into the tea.

“That was well done—Miss Black. Sirius may find this experience unpleasant but salutary for his well-being.”

Arrakis sought wisdom in the biscuit crumbs in her tea cup. Was Dumbledore implying she’d manipulated Sirius Black? She found her teeth digging into her lower lip and nibbled at her biscuit instead. “My concern is for Mrs. Prewett, who has had several losses this year.”

“And others in other years. I do not presume to Mrs. Prewett’s confidence, but it has seemed to me unfortunate that there were no children of that marriage. The Prewetts were a fine old family. Ah, Fawkes stirs at last. Biscuit, dear chap?”

Arrakis had not noticed the bird, which was a great lack of awareness on her part, considering the rarity and magical potency of phoenixes. The bird uttered a musical croon and yearned its fiery head out towards the biscuit.

“Ginger is congenial to phoenixes, as are other spices derived from roots, bark, or seeds. This does not include spicy peppers, despite their heat.” He smiled at Arrakis. “Would you care to give him his biscuit?” The tall wizard in his colourful robes finally matched something — the splendour of the phoenix in his fire-feathered glory. 

“Yes, sir.” Arrakis came forward and took the offered biscuit. Up close she could see the bird’s dark eyes. They were as black and shiny as her jet mourning ring, but their living darkness caught the light, as if looking at the sparks of a fire floating up into the night sky. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Fawkes. I’m Arrakis.” She broke the biscuit into pieces, holding them out one at a time for the bird to take in its formidable beak. It could have snapped her fingers off, but she could not be afraid when looking upon such fabulous beauty. Fawkes even rubbed his head against her hand. She carefully skritched Fawke’s brow ridge.

Dumbledore wrote her a hall pass then sent her off to the Slytherin dormitory. On the dungeon staircase, she encountered Professor Snape patrolling and showed him the pass.

“I trust you have not got into trouble, else I should have been informed.” His eyes swept over her face.

“Mr. Black wanted to see me.”

His entire posture shifted into a stance like a snake coiling up to strike. “I would call that trouble. He may not be guilty of betrayal and murder, but that does not mean he is… reliable. Off with you.”

Arrakis did not wait to be told twice.

The educational part of her Hogwarts’ experience had proved to be no trouble. She had acquired a good foundation of knowledge and excellent study habits. She was not the highest in her year, but she was in the top ten of all her classes. She had had as much of her ballet training as she could manage and had faced the fact that she must fall behind the girls she had studied with for years. She had learnt to interact with her peers and as she had been warned to expect, was still an outsider. She had had glimpses of the deeper problems rising up to the surface to threaten her life. Practically the last thing Arcturus had told her was that Voldemort was not dead. Her scar had ached as it had never done before coming to Hogwarts. Did Aunt Lucretia have the knowledge Great-grandfather had denied Arrakis?


	5. Chapter 5

Had she put dittany or betony down on that Potions exam? If she’d got confused and put down betony, she’d never be able to look Professor Snape in the face again. Betony had been on the Herbology exam. Right? Had she put down the correct growing conditions? And there were these books that needed to go back to the library…

Arrakis had all this on her mind. Anything she got wrong on the exam meant something she hadn’t learnt right this year and would need to fix for next year. Especially for Potions. Pleasing her Head of House would only smooth the way of her Hogwarts experience. She relived this year. She planned for next year. So many busy thoughts to be all swallowed up into darkness. What she’d been actually doing, she never did remember. Only darkness.

When Arrakis awoke, she was bound, lying on the cold stone floor. Quirrell was standing before the Mirror of Erised, speaking in two voices. The ropes fell away and the two-in-one hauled her to her feet before the mirror. Arrakis stared unwillingly at her reflection standing on the stage receiving applause. Flowers were thrown to her. She reached out like Arrakis had for the Snitch, and caught a large red jewel. She smiled and tucked it into the bodice of her costume. Arrakis felt the weight on her chest and startled back, but Quirrell had an iron grip on her arm.

“What did you see?” he demanded.

“A silly dream! This mirror is nothing but a liar.”

“I will speak to her,” the second voice said. It denied all Quirrel’s objections. Shaking hands raised and slowly unwrapped the turban over a face as still as a waxwork. His weight shifted to his back foot and he pivoted to show the dreadful face that marked his possession by Voldemort’s spirit. The mouth moved like an open wound. “Harriet Potter. You have changed your name, but not your destiny. Give me the stone, and I will allow you a little more time to live. I may even decide to spare you. That you were sorted into Slytherin indicates unexpected virtues — Miss Black. How droll.” Quirrel’s body walked backwards, bringing that red smile closer. “Give me the stone.” The red eyes held her pinned. A hand reached — backwards, awkward.

Arrakis whirled, stumbled on the steps, started to leap, but a hand closed on her shoulder and turned her back to him, to Quirrel’s melting waxwork face, beaded with sweat and grimacing.

She reflexively crossed her arms in front of her chest. But Quirrell went for her throat instead, taking hold hard enough to bruise only to flinch back, his hands blistered and smoking. They stared at each other in mutual incomprehension. Her scar stung and ached as if a razor was tracing it.

“Master, it burns me to touch her.” 

Voldemort raged at him, “Craven! Kill her and be done!”

Quirrell began to gesture, but his fingers were clumsy for wandless magic. Over his shoulder she could still see the Mirror of Erised. The images were fading: the audience, the stage, the dancer. The mirrored arms reached out. She was reaching out. Her hands found his skin. She put her hands on his face. His eyes rolled between her fingers and blisters burst out of his skin. He screamed and grabbed her wrists to push her hands away, but the contact made his flesh crack and break like unfired clay. The possessing spirit howled in rage and burst out of Quirrell’s crumbling body.

She opened her mouth but there was no breath to scream, no light, only a rush of darkness that took her down with it beyond both dream and nightmare.

Two male voices quarrelled. Arrakis struggled against the feebleness of her muscles.

“Hilarious, coming from someone who shampoos in flobberworm slime.”

“Azkaban didn’t make you mad; it merely fed the madness that always flourished.”

“Bella said to say, “Hi, Sevvie-wevvie.’”

A new voice, female, spoke. “Shut it, the silly pair of you. Look, you’ve disturbed her.” 

A damp cloth, scented with lavender, stroked over her face. Arrakis slitted her leaden eyes. Beside her was a brightly colored mass that must be the Headmaster. She closed her eyes again, but she couldn’t ignore the tidal pull of his attention.

Quirrell. Voldemort. The immediate past flooded her mind and spat up the image of Quirrell’s terrified eyes between her fingers. She threw herself to the side of the bed and vomited a thin bile. Her murdering hands spasmed but she and guilt could not be parted so easily.

Madame Pomfrey flicked the mess away and wiped Arrakis’ face clean. A weight pressed down on the bed next to her. Arms came around her and held her close to a warm body.

“I killed him.”

The matron drew in a sharp breath, but the men were tellingly silent. The man holding her didn’t let go. He didn’t have buttons all up his arms and he wasn’t dressed in a rainbow shade, so it must be Sirius Black.

“Maybe you should just tell us what happened, kiddo, if you’re up to it.” A big hand stroked her hair.

So she told them, in as few words as they would allow. “So it was him, whether he’s dead or not dead. Voldemort.”

“Yes, my fears have been confirmed. He has managed to anchor his spirit to this world: more than a ghost and less than a man.”

She couldn’t even look at Dumbledore. What had been all that messing about with the horrid mirror? Some scheme of his, like Mother Black’s speculations.

“Will I go to Azkaban now?”

Sirius Black’s arms tightened around her. “Don’t worry about that. He attacked you. I’d run with you to the ends of the earth if they tried. Fancy Antarctica?” He nudged his knuckles into her ribs and she gasped a shocked giggle.

Snape’s voice held all the chill Sirius lacked. “The Ministry is not ready to accept the fact of the Dark Lord’s continued existence. As Quirrell’s actions show him to be pursuing the darkest of magics, they will need no one else to blame for his death but himself.” She hauled her head up; wrenched her eyelids open. Snape was glaring at Sirius Black with more malevolence than a human countenance should be able to hold. The dark eyes shifted to her face and the expression turned into stony blankness. Again there was the sensation of being examined with great perception. “You cannot afford the luxury of comforting lies,” he said, and again his hateful gaze lashed at Sirius.

She looked down at her hands. She still felt cold, and Sirius felt shockingly hot. Did anyone here want to know how scared Quirrell’s eyes had been? That she was afraid she’d never forget them?

Madame Pomfrey offered her a potion vial. “Take this Calming Draught. Severus, do you have any Dreamless Sleep?”

Arrakis drank the potion, and felt something unwind in her stomach. “I’d rather not, please. I don’t know — what day is this?” The image of being helplessly asleep was not a comforting one. She’d spent long enough in the dark.

A couple of days later brought the end of the school year. Arrakis went to the train platform to wish her classmates goodbye, but she would not be riding with them. She was to go by the Headmaster’s Floo to 12 Grimmauld Place. “I don’t know, cousin Draco. Mrs. Prewett will have plans for my summer, I am sure.”

“I will ask my mother to intervene,” Draco promised. “It’s ridiculous that you wouldn’t socialise with us out of school. You should be among your peers, now that your existence isn’t a secret.”

“I will feel lonely over the summer if I cannot hear from any of the friends I have met at Hogwarts.” They weren’t her friends, except perhaps for Millicent. Nevertheless, she was lonely as soon as the train started to pull out of the station. Hagrid walked with her on the path to the school, but Sirius Black met them more than halfway. He took the downhill slope with long, reckless steps. The weeks out of prison showed in the warm tones of his skin and the lustre and spring of his curly hair, but his face was still gaunt. It gave his smile a rictus quality that undermined its glee.

“I’ll take over from here, Hagrid!”

Hagrid smiled down at her through his beard. “A’right, Sirius. Have a fine summer, ‘rakis.” He moved off with strides released from the hobble of her much shorter legs. She watched him go, studying the motion of his giant body. His centre of gravity was lower than a normal sized man’s. Despite his great bulk, he moved easily over the earth.

“Do I want to know why you’re watching Hagrid’s arse?” Sirius Black’s voice veered between nervousness and laughter.

Arrakis gave him Aunt Lucretia’s best repressing look. He put his hands up defensively, all laughter now as the skin around his eyes crinkled. “He walks in an interesting way. He doesn’t thump unless he wants to.”

“This is more of the dance stuff, isn’t it? I had to take dancing lessons, you know.” He embraced an imaginary partner and waltzed around her. He got the steps right, showing the training had taken correctly. “And I’ve paid attention to girls walking, but not so much the walking part.” He winked.

“The advanced lessons teach you how to pay attention to how your body moves, and how others’ bodies move.” She imitated his waltz steps, adding in some of his natural panache. It was easier to see than imitate, because he was so much taller, but she got the point across.

Sirius laughed. “I get it. I’ve teased you enough, haven’t I? Let’s go up to the castle. All packed up?”

“Yes. My trunk is waiting in the vestibule by the Great Hall.” They started up the path towards the castle doors. “I never had the chance to ask you, but how is Mrs. Prewett?”

“She didn’t look well, but she wouldn’t tell me anything. She did let me see her home.” He grimaced. “Anyone would get sick living in that house…” He discontinued that thought with a glance at her. “That’s why I’m at the other property. The main house is not fit to live in, but the lake cottage is very pretty, even in cold weather. I hope you will visit me there. Maybe I could teach you to sail, or you could have friends over to swim.”

“I do not know how to swim, but I should like to learn.”

“You should definitely learn. It’s fun to mess around in the water.”

Up at the castle, Sirius shrank her trunk and tucked it into his pocket. When they reached the Headmaster’s Office, Dumbledore was there with Professor Snape, who barely contained his hostility at the sight of Sirius.

Dumbledore was his usual smiling self. “Ah, good. I was wondering, Sirius, if you’d forgot there was a time limit on when this Floo connection could be made. But you are both here now. Miss Black, I look forward to seeing you again next year.”

“Thank you, Headmaster.” Dumbledore offered the Floo powder box to Sirius. Arrakis took the moment to speak to her Head of House. “I hope you have a pleasant summer, Professor Snape.”

He did not smile, but the wicked sidelong glint his eyes made towards Sirius was nearly a grin. “And you as well, Miss Black. You should consider trying out for the Quidditch team next year. I would like to see Slytherin continue its grasp on the Quidditch Cup.” His eyes steadied on hers. “It would also help you integrate better with your peers.”

That was aimed at her, as the first part had been aimed at Sirius, who huffed. “You first, Har… Arrakis. Twelve Grimmauld Place, clear and firm.”

The flames turned green and she stepped through them. She was home. Had it always been so gloomy? It was like stepping out of summer into winter, without even the chancy London sunshine. She moved aside for Sirius to follow her out. He scanned the room. The thin, hard line of his mouth made him look strikingly like Arcturus. It softened when his gaze lit on her. He put her trunk down and unshrank it. “There you go. I suppose I should have a word with Mrs. Prewett, hmm?” 

“She’ll be in the salon.”

Aunt Lucretia sat in her favourite chair. A book was open on her knees, but she was looking towards the window. As the curtains were closed, barely showing even a glimpse of the sheers, there was little she could see there. Arrakis went up to her and waited to be noticed. Lucretia was thinner than she had been at Sirius’ trial. The faint red blotches on her cheeks were not there for vigour. She turned her eyes to Arrakis, who took this as her cue to bestow a baiser. “Good afternoon, Aunt Lucretia.”

“It is good to see you again, my dear. Sirius, you will stay for tea.”

Sirius took a seat as if he were sitting on a hedgehog. “Yes, ma’am.” Arrakis took the chair next to Lucretia’s.

Lucretia rang the silver bell from the side-table. The tea service appeared. Steam curled from the kettle. Arrakis’ favourite parkins were arranged in a tempting spiral of cubes. It was Arrakis’ duty to pour. Well-accustomed to the role, she kept up the little rituals while the two adults argued over her in their best politesse. Lucretia’s voice was oddly husky. She spoke with measured precision.

A potion vial was lying on the side-table. Empty. Arrakis checked it several times. Each time, it was empty. Up in her room she had a vial of Dreamless Sleep, still full.

“Professor Snape advised that I should take up Quidditch,” she meat-axed her way into the conversation.

Sirius grumbled something under his breath that included many sibilants before saying, “I heard you caught the Snitch in your first game. James would have bursting with pride.”

“Not the most lady-like of games, but acceptable for one’s school years.” Lucretia selected a cucumber sandwich.

“If one excels. To be only a poor, or even mediocre player, would be of no benefit.”

Sirius made a face, but admitted, “And less fun. You deserve fun, kiddo.”

“Childish amusements are for children,” Lucretia said primly.

“I need a crash course in Quidditch. I need to practice flying. I need my own broom.”

Sirius lit up like a firework, ready to explode in their faces. He didn’t bounce in his seat but he quivered anticipatorily. “Of course you do! And the estate is a wonderful place to fly — you’ll have all the room you need without worrying about Muggles seeing you, and if you fall off over the lake you’ll have a soft landing. Oh, I’d teach you to swim first. And I need a broom.” He grinned at Lucretia. “Shall I buy a broom for you?”

“I think not.”

Sirius winced.

“However, your Professor’s point is well-taken. I need you at home for at least two weeks, and we will arrange for you to visit the Black estate some time after that. Of course, I trust you will deal with the manor house, Sirius. That you do not care for it is your own concern, but Arrakis is your co-heir and as her guardian I insist all parts of the inheritance are kept up. Many affairs were neglected during Father’s illness. Now that you are healing from your ordeal you can make them right.” The next breath Lucretia drew rattled, and she sagged into her chair, coughing as she caught a handkerchief up to her lips.

Arrakis set down her tea cup, clipping the edge of the saucer and starting a chain reaction of clinking china. “I am sorry you are so unwell, dear aunt. I hope you have been seeing a healer,” was what she wanted to say, but what came out was, “’m’sorry! I knew you were sick,” followed by hovering at Lucretia’s elbow.

“Your concern is appreciated, but don’t loom over me, child. I will retire now. Sirius, if you like, you may take her out for supper.” She called Kreacher to take her up to her room.

Arrakis dropped back down into her seat. Her napkin had fallen to the floor beside her chair. She picked it up, folded it, and laid it across her plate.

“I see you are fond of each other. I’m glad you grew up with her.” Sirius reached over and took her hand. “Let’s go out. I think I can find something appropriately harmless for the two of us to enjoy. I know you’re worried about her, but you can help her best by looking after yourself, so she can rest easy.”

She nodded. She couldn’t manage a smile but she managed not to start crying. Life is never fair.

“Have you something to wear that could pass for Muggle clothes? Go change clothes. You’re out of school. It’s time to act like it.” He gave her a thump on her shoulder, giving away the enthusiasm he tried to control in his voice.

The grey skirt and the lightweight black, grey, and pink geometric patterned sweater still fit. The skirt hit on the knee, instead of just below. She wore it with white lace-cuffed ankle socks and black Mary Janes. Sirius looked at her with some dismay. He was dressed in denims with a white shirt and a black leather jacket.

“Listen, kiddo. I need to establish some ground rules. Call me ‘Dad’ and roll your eyes a lot. Otherwise I’m going to be in trouble.”

“Eye-rolling is vulgar.”

“It’s an obvious expression of teenage disdain for a parent.” He led her outside. Sitting on the pavement was a Muggle transport machine that was nothing so elegant as the Rolls. Sirius beamed as if this was his child. “Isn’t she a knockout? I’ve looked forward to you riding with me. Good thing I brought the sidecar.” He showed her how to climb in and fasten the seatbelt, then produced a helmet for her. A quick flick of his wand turned it candy pink.

“Seriously, ‘Dad’?” She tried rolling her eyes. It was not comfortable.

“Perfect tone, just practice the eyes.” He put the helmet on her and fastened the chin strap. Once he’d mounted the motorcycle, he patted her helmet. Only later would she find he’d added silver glitter. “Don’t worry, this will be perfectly safe. I’ll stay inside the speed limit. If we run into any Muggle police I’ll just lightly Confound them.”

It was fun, once she’d got used to the noise and the speed of the other vehicles moving around them. It was unnerving to watch a car, or a truck, or a bus seem to come at them but then slide its metal bulk by close enough to touch. Seeing traffic out the tinted windows of the Rolls had never been so exciting.

She had thought herself comfortable in the Muggle world. Now she could see that the dance studios, libraries, and museums she’d visited were a sedate, narrow slice of all this commotion. First, Sirius drove her through the more famous streets of London and she began to get used to the traffic all around her. She also picked up some colourful expressions employed by Sirius to describe the failings of his fellow drivers. When they were hungry, they went for fish and chips (she tried not to finish hers off but admitted it was all tasty.) At the cinema, he handed her cup of fizzy drink and a box of buttered popcorn, insisting it was part of the experience. She didn’t care for the way the fizzy drink tickled her nose, but it washed away the grease of the popcorn. Both food and drink were soon forgot as the film ran.

‘But Muggles can’t do magic,’ kept running through her head. They couldn’t — that’s what made them Muggles — but then how could they make pictures move and speak? She glanced at Sirius. He looked as surprised as she did. “I thought you’d seen films before,” she whispered.

“Those had actors in them. They weren’t all… drawings. It’s like the moving stained glass windows in the prefects’ bathroom.”

Someone behind them shushed him and they sat quietly through the rest of ‘Fern Gully’. They sat there in the theatre as the lights came up, reading the long list of people who had apparently made the film and their various unfathomable jobs.

“Cast? But— oh, they were doing the voices.”

“What is foley?”

“Look at all the people called animators.”

“That looks incredibly complicated. Something like six hundred people? That’s a good chunk of how many…” he looked over his shoulder. They were alone in the theatre. “…wizards live in Britain. So many people to make something that takes just over an hour to watch.”

She fiddled with the box of popcorn on her lap, suspecting it had leaked grease onto her skirt. “The ballet is like that. The dancers who spend most of their lives training. The musicians, the costumers, the set designers, the people who do the lights and manage the stage. The people who pay money to put it on and the people who pay money to see it. And it’s … you could watch this film again, but a live performance is never the same twice. Once it’s done, it’s gone, the work all those people did.”

“When do I get to see you dance, kiddo? I’ll buy up a whole theatre’s worth of ticket. A whole theatre.”

“I’m not going to be ready for that yet. It’s so hard to be good at ballet. And I, I have to do other things.”

“If you really want this, let me help you make it happen,” he urged. “I just want you to be happy.”

She handed him the box of popcorn and stood up. “Please don’t make this harder for me. At the very least, I have to finish school. And you know… you know what else is out there. I’m not going to pretend it away.”

Sirius looked up at her with wet eyes and drooping mouth. “If I could shove the world out of the way to make your dreams come true, I would.”

Arrakis found herself smiling. “The thing about art, is that only I can make me good at it. So don’t be sad about that. Come on, let’s go home.”

She put on the glittery pink helmet without a fuss. As they approached Grimmauld Place, Sirius’ bike sounded increasingly loud in the quiet streets. It kept up the deep bass rumble as he came to a stop and helped her out of the side car. The visor blurred his face but his teeth were bared in a grin. “What I can do, is help you learn Quidditch. You do whatever Mrs. Prewett wants here, but when you come to stay with me, you are going to fly.”

She rolled her eyes. “Goodnight, ‘Dad’.”

He laughed so uproariously that lights came on in the neighbouring houses. He did not leave until the door closed behind her, only then did his motorcycle go howling away.

There was popcorn grease on her skirt. That was what life was like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you would like to see more of this story. I have more in mind, but am trying to devote time to a much longer and more detailed HP story that's in a different vein.

**Author's Note:**

> When I started this story, I had not sufficiently appreciated the mess the Black family is in. I hope I have cast some canon events in an interesting light.


End file.
